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WOMEN OF THE SOUTH
DISTINGUISHED IN LITERATURE.
ILLUSTRATED AVITH PORTRAITS ON STEEL.
BY MARY FORREST. toje-uJ,
" There is more owing lier than is paid." — AlVs Well that Ends WelL
" There are some shrewd contents in that same paper." — Merchan' of Venice.
" IIow many things by season seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection." — Und.
NEW YORK:
ClIARLES B. RICHARDSON,
540 BROADWAY.
1866
h
"Ps/^s
Kntkked. according to Act of Congress, in the year 1360, by
DERBY & JACKSON,
In the Clerk'b Ciffice of the District Coui-t of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.
A L V O R I), P R I X T E R.
THIS VOLl'MF
IS lENDERLY iN SCRIBE i, TO
IVI-^ OVCOTKCEE,.
PORTRAITS.
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT, FitONT'.sprECE
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE 80
MARIA J. McINTOSH, 163
MARION HAELAND, 195
ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON, ........... 245
AUGUSTA J. EVANS, 328
L. VIRGINIA FRENCH, 439
'Measure not the work
Until the day 's out and the labor done ;
Then bring your gauges. If Ihe day's work 'a scant.
Why, call it scant ; affect no compromise ;
And, in that we have nobly striven at leist,^
Deal with us nobly, women though we be,
And hoaor us with truth, if not with praise."
AUIZOBA Leigb.
PREFACE.
Reader :
If you would establish a belief in magnetic
currents, personal and spiritual, write a book of
biographical sketches. There is nothing like it for
bringing one's sharpest instincts into play, and —
so to speak — charging one's self fully with idiocratie
influence. There are the letters from the several
*' subjects," — every chirographical kink a corporeal or
psychological sign ; every sentence an efflux of being,
attracting or repelling you. Then the data, studded
with epochs, from each one of which depends a
tale — close folded, it is true, yet, by virtue of the
clairvoyance you have assumed, electric and portentous.
Living so many lives, one feels, of course, preter-
naturally old — and wise — when the task is ended.
Happy biographer, whose lines, like my own, have
fallen in "pleasant places!"
Women of the South, whose names are herein
written — who, one after another, have sat down iu
the chair before me (now a melancholy void), filling
the air with such a gracious ^^ bonhomie of presence"
— a flitting, fair, familiar company — to you I would
say, I have aimed at impartial estimates of your writ-
Yl PREFACE.
ings, while I have presented each one with such fulhiess
of detail as, from personal and other knowledge, 1 felt
justified in using freely. In the necessity for dispatch,
however, the work — going to press in detached parts —
was found at last to extend far beyond the limits pro-
posed ; no alternative remained but to cut down the
sum of specimen extracts still unstereotyped, and
apportion to each one of their authors but a small
part of what was originally assigned them. With this
broader estimate of Southern resource, a larger book
and ' ' free circulation " shall sometime make amends.
Deserving and popular writers, as the authors of
"Busy Moments of An Idle Woman," "Sylvia's World,"
"Recollections of Washington," " Silverwood," and
others, whose incognita I could not presume to in-
vade : let me say here, I have omitted your names
v/ith a regretful sense of honor lost to myself and my
cause. "Sylvia's World," especially, bears the stamp
of a strong hand, and will yet, I trust, be given to the
world with the name of the author.
For the many courtesies extended — for the facilities
afforded in the use of published and unpublished works
— least of all for the warm, womanly hands and hearts
which I have found in friendly letters — I have no
thanks; but my good and loyal "subjects" will not
]nistake my silence.
The portraits have been made expressly for this
volume, and, with one exception, from life.
New York, August, 1860.
CONTENTS.
OCT^^VI.A. ^WAJLTCON LE VERT: page
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 13
AN ADDRESS UPON LAYING THE CORNER STONE OP THE CLAY MONUMENT.. . 29
ADDRESS TO THE CONTINENTALS OF MOBILE "1
AN EVENING WITH LAMARTINE. From the " Souvenirs of Travel " 33
FAREWELL TO VENICE. From the Same 33
THE WAY OVER THE SIMPLON. From the Same "5
ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS. From the Same... 83
SILVER AND GOLDEN ILLUMINATIONS. From the Same 40
BALL OF THE COUNTESS DE WALEWSKI. From the Same 41
THE COLISEUM. From the Same 43
THE HOME OF THE BROWNINGS. From the Same :... 45
JENNY LIND 46
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 48
THE LOST MAIL 55
MY KNITTING-WORK 62
THE PLANTATION 63
TO THE URSULINE3 C5
MY PIAZZA , 66
ix
X CONTENTS.
FAGS
BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCH 6S
ADVENTURE IN THE CAVE, i'lom " Vernon Grove ". . 70
SPRING-TIME From the Same 76
TO A BELOVED VOICE. From the Same 78
-AJO^^A. COH-A. JVIO^"iV^TT RITCHIE:
BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCH 60
. MESMERIC SOMNAMBULISM. From " Autobiography of an Actress " 95
AN OLD MAID 96
WOMAN'S FRIENDSHIP 99
LADY TEAZLE'S INOPPORTUNE NAP. From "Autobiography of an Actress" 102
JULIET'S DAGGER. From the Same ,....'... 108
JULIET'S TOMB. From the Same 104
THE REPRESENTATIVE BALCONY. From the Same 105
THE INKY POTION. From the Same 105
THE CAUTIOUS ACTOR. From the Same, 106
HAPPINESS. From " Armand " lOT
ARMAND'S GRIEF. From the Same 108
ARMAND'S LOVE. From the Same. 100
ABMAND'S TRUTH. From the Same 100
TTRTUB ITS OWN SHIELD, From the Same 110
MB. AND MI^. TIFFANY AT HOME. Prom "Fashion" Ill
C-A.TilAJBIN:B .A-ISTNTE ^WAJBITTiEIl.r) :
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 114
THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVBRIE. From "The Household of Bouverie" 118
GENIUS. From the Same 12S
RELIGION. From the Same 125
THE SECRET CHAMBER AND ITS OCCUPANT. From the Same 12S
ELIXIR OP GOLD AND BLOOD. From the Same 129
LEGEND OF THE INDIAN CII.VMBER. Prom "Book of Poems" 132
THE FOE'S RETURN. F.om the Same 142
I HAVE SEEN THIS PLACE BEFORE. From the Same 145
CONTENTS. Xi
CATHARINE ANNE WAEFIELD— Continued :
PAOB
MADELINE. From the Same ,....- 146
UNHOLY LOVE. From the Same 148
ELE-AJSrOR PERCY LEE:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 15»
THE DESERTED HOUSE. From "Book of Po«ms " 151
THE LILY OP THE NILE. From the Same 15»
THE ANCESTRESa From the Same 15T
THE CHILD OF MANY TEARS. From the Same 158
THK SUN-STRUCK EAGLE. From the Same 16»
BURY HER WITH HER SHINING HAIR. Prom the Same 16t
IkLAJBI^A. J. MICINTOSH:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 168
WOMAN, HER OFFICES AND HER POWERS. From " Woman in America " ITO
OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES. From "Charms and Counter-Charms" 172
A SOUTHERN HOME. From a work in preparation 178
VIOLET; OR, THE CROSS AND THE CROWN 176
THE RIVEN HEART. From unpublished Poems 181
FROWN NOT. From the Same 182
NO MORE. From the Same 189
ASPIRATION. From the Same 18S
j^jl.m:ir^ Li]srco]i.isr fhelps:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 184
A NEW ENGLAND FAMILY. From " Hours With My Pupils " 18T
SOUTHERN HOUSEKEEPERS. From the Same 190
TRUTH AND SINCERITY. From the Same 190
BELLES. From the Same 193
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 19r.
CAMP-MEETING SCENE. From "Alone" 199
MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN. From " The Hidden Path " 208
Xii CONTENTS.
MAKION HARLAND— CoNTiNUKD :
PACK
NEMESIS. From book in preparation. 210
LOVE ME. From " Alone " 213
AT PEACE. From " The Hidden Path " 215
KMiiVtA. 3D. E. I<r. SOTJTH^VORTH :
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 216
LADY ETHERIDGE BECOMES A GOVERNESS. From " Rose Elmer " 224
THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD 235
ROSA. "VHERTNER JOHNSON":
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 245
HASHEESH VISIONS 248
MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. From Book of Poems 355
ANGEL WATCHERS. From the Same 25T
A LEGEND OF THE OPAL. From the Same 258
THE NIGHT HAS COME. From the Same 260
THE COMET OF 1858. From the Same 263
CAROLnSTE LEE! HEISTTZ:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 265
"THEY SAY." From "Ernest Linwood" 271
FAME. From the Same 2T1
UNION WITHOUT LOVE. From the Same 2T2
THE BLACK MASK. From " The Banished Son " 2T2
DE LARA'S BRIDE. From " De Lara, or The Moorish Bride " 235
THE SNOW-FLAKES 28T
' A MARTIAL SONG 289
SAJLiLY ROCHESTER EOR33:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 291
MY FATHER'S WILL 293*
THE RETREAT. From " Grace Trueman " 299
AUNT PEGGY A LOGICIAN. From the Same 802
THE BAPTISM. From the Same 808
coNTEiTTS. xiii
STJS-A.>r A-riCHER TA.IL.L.EY:
PAGE
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 309
ENNERSLIE. From Book of Poems 313
SUMMER NOON' DAY DREAM. From the Same 322
THE SIRENS. From the Same 325
REST. From the Same 826
J^TJGTJSTJ^ jr. EV^lSrS:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 82S
LILLY'S DEATH. From"BeuIah" 333
BEULAH BENTON AND GUY HARTWELL AS LOVERS. From the Same 33S
FIRST STEP INTO THE DARK. From the Same 341
CORNELIA GRAHAM'S DEATH. From the Same 343
TRUTH AT LAST TRIUMPHANT. From the Same 849
A WIFE'S DIVIXE MINISTRY. From the Same 851
JA.N"E T. H. CROSS:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 854
SCARLET GERANIUMS. From " Wayside Flowerets " ..'..... 356
LA PETITE F:fcE. From " Drift-Wood " 85S
THE MAGIC RING. From the Same 860
THE M.4.N- ANGEL. From " Heart-Blossoms " 8G3
SYRINGA. From " Wayside Flowerets " 365
THE RILL. From the Same 366
SONNET. From "The Home Circle" 86T
Mi^RY S. B. IDJ^ISTJ^ SHTlSmijER :
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 869
THE MORNING STAR OF THE SPIRIT. From "The Southern Harp" 8T2
THE FADED FLOWER AND THE CRUSHED HEART. From the Same 873
THE BLEST ETERNAL HOME. From the Same STS
SHED NOT A TEAR. From the Sam o 8T4
LIKE A DREAM WHEN ONE AWAKETII. From the Same 374
Xiv CONTENTS.
PACK
BIOGRAPaiCAL SKETCH 376
THE PLANTER'S DAUGHTER 379
THE HUGUENOT EXILES 381
.lOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 386
NOTE TO BEN KUOr.ASSAN. 388
TO THE MEMORY OF A SISTER POET. From " Poems by Amelia" ; 389
THE GREEN MOSSY BANK WHERE THE BUTTERCUPS GREW. From the Same ... . 390
MUSINGS, From the Same 391
TO THE SKY-LARK. From the Same 394
THE FREED BIRD. From the Same ■. 396
WHEN SOFT STARS. From the Same .' > 393
THE PRESENCE OF GOD. From the Same 399
THOU CANST NOT FORGET ME. From the Same 401
ON ENTERING MAMMOTH CAVE. From the Same 402
K^TE .A-. DXJ BOSE:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 40T
THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER 409
WACHULLA 412
J^. E.. BLOXJNT .A.]Srr> C. B. SIN^CLAIR:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 41fl
NOTICE OF THEIR POEMS. By John R. Thompson 417
WHAT THE MOON SHINES ON. From Miss Blount's Poems 410
DREAMING. From Miss Sinclair's Poems 423
IjIZZIE PETIT:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 425
BENEDICK, THE MARRIED MAN. From " Light and Darkness " 430
S.A.r.X.IE >A.T>A. REEDY:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 485
THE BRIDAL. From the Book of Poems In preparation 436
CONTENTS. XV
PAGB
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 439
THE LEGEND OF THE INFERNAL PASS 44t
LEGEND OF THE LOST SOUL 44$
UNWRITTEN MUSIC 452
ALONE 454
MISERERE OF THE PINES 455
THE GHOULS 45T
MADAME LE VEUT'S " SOUVENIRS OF TRAVEL " 459
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 464
CUTTING ROBBIE'S HAIR 468
THE HOUR AVIIEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN 470
THE MISSING FLOWER 4T2
AJ<n>rA. PEYRE jDIIsTISriES:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 476
THE WIFE 477
LOVE'S MESSENGERS 478
WEDDED LOVE 473
LOUISA S. IVICCORID
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH.... 480
CORNELIA AND GRACCHUS. From a Tragedy 483
m:a.tiy eliza-beth IjEE:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 485
THE POETS 486
AN EASTERN LOVE SONG 488
THE LAST PLACE OF SLEEP 488
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 490
LOU LINDSAY'S BRIDAL 491
XVI CONTENTS.
GEORGIANA A. HULSE McLEOD— Continued :
PAGE
SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS 491
THE MOTHER'S PRAYER 492
PASSERS-BY , 493
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 495
ALICE HEATH'S INTERVIEW WITH CROMWELL ,,,.. 495
WRITERS NOT YET AUTHORS.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 499
THE POOR 493
R. J.A.COBXJS:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH , ,'.., 501
THE SECOND WIFE 1 503
THE WIND 504
ESSIE B. CEEEIISSBOROXJ&II:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH... 606
A THOUGHT IN A DREAM 506
A SKELETON IN EVERY HEART 507
ElMEILiIE C. S. CHILTON:
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 50S
OCTOBER 509
THE WRENS IN THE LOCUST-TREE 510
WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
OCTAVIA WAiTON LE VEBT.
Feedkika Beemek calls the subject of this sketch hei
" sweet Eose of Florida." She certainly is a " Kose that al)
are praising." It would require the scope of a full biography
to change this rose into a bud,* and then, petal by petal, t(k
unfold the bud again to the rose ; after all, we might not find
the dew-drop at its heart, nor be able to trace out its blended
tints and exhalations.
Only recently has Madame Le Yert appeared before the
world as an author. Long before she accepted the idea, often
suggested to her, of writing a book, she was, perhaps, more
widely known than any woman of America. Nature evidently
planned her, on a large, comprehensive scale, a social genius,
and all her good gifts are cut and polished to this end.
Thoroughly cosmopolitan in spirit, she acquires with great
facility the languages and idioms which make her at home
with different nations. We have seen her the centre of a
group made up of representatives from France, Spain, Italy,
* "As if a rose should shut, and be a bud again." — Keats.
14 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Germany, and her own country, apparently not only in bril-
liant rajojport with each, through the medium of his own
vernacular,-l)ut putting the whole circle in sympathy — stringing
all upon the thread of her own magnetism. With this rare
faculty, she has twice flitted through the countries of the Old
World, leaving her name playing like a sunbeam on every
city and village, and in the hearts, alike, of the titled and
the lowly. She was made up without antipathies, and, in
place of them, has large adaptation and tolerance, which,
together with her womanly graces, eminently fit her for the
office of social harmonizer. There are few spheres so malig-
nant as to repel her utterly, and, if repelled, her sunny soul
does not seem to receive any positive shock. She is more
electric than eclectic, and something better than either — she
was never known to speak or act an unkindness.
It is interesting to note the different impressions which
Madame Le Yert conveys to different minds ; to see how hard
it is for us to accept anything but a glaring extraneous cause
for a fine effect. We had read many of the newspaper sketches
of her, and listened to countless relations of her varied accom-
plishments, but had failed to recognize her specific charm,
until a little child, wlio had been sitting, one day, in her
presence, thinking a child's " long, long thoughts," came to
whisper softly in our ear : " She isn't a fine lady at all : she
is just like me^ and I love her ! " The darling ! Through
all the (5clat and circumstance of the famous, flush woman, this
six-summered soul had discovered and paid tribute to its sweet
counterpart.
We can, perhaps, have no better proof of the extended fame
and popularity of Madame Le Yert, than the fact that, for many
years, she has been the capital in trade of our rhymesters and
penny-a-liners, and, like George Washington in the compositions
of the school-children, subject to every variety of well-inten-
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 15
tioned caricature. High critical aTithorities, even, emerging
from the spell of her personal presence, have grown florid and
rhapsodical, until we have sometimes thought that the spirit of
this charming little woman must ache in every part, with its
weight of " glittering generalities." For her sake, we shall
make this sketch, as far as possible, a thing of features and facts.
George Walton, the grandfather of Madame Le Yert, and
one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, was a
native of Prince Edward County, Ya., but removed in early
life to Georgia, where his fine gifts and chivalric character soon
placed him in a distinguished position. He received his first
wound in the service of his country, wliile leading on his
regiment at the siege of Savannah ; was a member of the first
Congress, convened at Philadelphia, and afterward held succes-
sively the honorable offices of Governor of Georgia and Judge
of the Supreme Court.
l!Tot long before the Pevolution, he married Miss Camber,
the daughter of an English nobleman, to whom the crown had
given large possessions in the colony of Georgia. When the
American sky grew dark with the coming storm, her father
insisted upon her return to England ; but she refused to leave
her rebel husband, and followed him with true womanly hero-
ism through the perilous days which succeeded. Soon after the
siege of Savannah, she was taken prisoner by the British and
sent to one of the West India islands, where she remained until
an exchange was effected. It was the great delight of our
author, when a little child, to listen to her grandmother's thrill-
ing narrations of scenes as they then transpired. Peared as an
English heiress, young, gifted and beautiful, her devotion to her
adopted country should give her name an honorable place
among the heroines of the Revolution.
Madame Le Yert has now in her possession many letters
addressed to Colonel Walton by General Washington, Lafayette,
16 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
the elder Adams, Jefferson, and other noted men of those
days, in which his descendants are proud to trace assurances of
their high confidence and regard. In 1808, he died at his
country seat, near Augusta, Georgia, leaving two children, one
of whom, the father of our author, still lives, and bears his
honored name.
G-eorge "Walton, the second, was educated at Princeton, l^ew
Jersey, and married Miss Sally Minge "Walker, the daughter of
an eminent lawyer of Georgia. To her brilliant gifts and
accomplishments the world is, no doubt, indebted for many of
the characteristics of her distinguished daughter.
In 1812, Colonel "Walton became a member of the Legisla-
ture of Georgia, and held the position for many years with
honor. In 1821, he was appointed Secretary of State under
General Jackson, then Governor of Florida, and when the old
chief retired to the " Hermitage," succeeded him in office. In
1830, he was elected to the Legislature of Florida, and, in 1835,
removed to Mobile, Alabama, where he held for two years the
office of Mayor. Since then he has travelled much in this
country and Europe, and filled various important positions.
He is now, at sixty-nine years of age, in vigorous health, and
one of the raciest conversationists of the day.
Octavia "Walton was born at Belle Yue, near Augusta, Ga.,
but her parents removing soon after to Florida, her first memo-
ries are of the sunshine and flowers of Pensacola : in her own
vivid words, " of the orange and live-oak trees, shading the
broad veranda ; of the fragrant acacia, oleander, and Cape
jasmin trees, which filled the parterre sloping down to the
sea-beach ; of merry races with my brother along the white
sands, while the creamy waves broke over my feet, and the
delicious breeze from the gulf played in my hair ; of the pet
mocking-birds in tlie giant oak by my window, whose songs
called me each morning from dreamland."
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 17
Pensacola, situated on a noble bay, was the rendezvous of
tbe United States vessels of tlie Gulf station. It was a gala
time wlien tliey returned from tlieir cruises ; balls and parties
at the governor's house — splendid entertainments on board the
ships — moonlight excursions upon the bay, and pic-nics in the
magnolia groves. The well-educated and chivalric officers
were a large element in the society to which our kutlior was
thus early accustomed ; and while yet a mere child, she had
little to learn in the way of drawing-room ease and ele-
gance.
Amid such scenes, her receptive nature seems to have
absorbed that tropical exuberance of thought, feeling, language,
and presence, which has made her name famous ; while at the
same time, an early and close relation with nature, in one of her
most tender and bounteous aspects, preserved intact, amid all
j)recocious tendencies, the naive simplicity of the child, which
is to this day her crowning grace.
Before the age of twelve years, she could write and converse
in three languages with facility. So unusual was her talent as
a linguist, that it was the custom of her father to take hef to
his office to translate from the French or Spanish the most
important letters connected with affairs of state. There, perched
upon a high stool — she was too tiny in stature to be made
available otherwise — she would interpret, with the greatest ease
and correctness, the tenor and spirit of foreign dispatches,
proving herself, thus early, quite worthy of her illustriougi
descent.
During her father's administration, as Governor of Florida,
he located the seat of government, and, at the earnest request
of his little daughter, Octavia, called it by the Indian name of
" Tallahassee." Its signification (" beautiful land ") fell musi^
cally upon the ear of the imaginative child ; she was greatly
interested, too, in the old Seminole king, Neamathla, who, in
2
18 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
tlie clays of liis power, struck Lis tent-pole in that ground,
made it liis resting-place, and called it first bj this sweet name.
It was the custom of the Indians to go everj year to Pensa-
cola to receive presents from the governor. Neamathla grew
v^ery fond of the young Octavia, and when the temptations of
civilized life induced any of his retinue to depart from his
commands, they would always seek the intercession of the
governor's daughter, who was known among them as the
" White Dove of Peace."
Among many interesting incidents of her early life, Madame
Le Yert remembers an interview with Lafayette, on the occa-
sion of his last visit to the South. He had written to her grand-
mother, begging her, if possible, to meet him at Mobile, but
the infirmities of age beginning at this time to weigh some-
what heavily upon her, she determined to send a worthy repre-
sentative in the person of the graceful and versatile Octavia.
After the arrival and grand reception of Lafayette at
Mobile, Octavia and her mother were quietly presented by the
committee of arrangements, and the little fair-haired envoy
then placed in his hands the miniature of her grandfather, to
which she bore striking resemblance. For some minutes he
gazed upon Ijotli pictures in silence ; then, bursting into tears,
caught the child to his heart, exclaiming : " The living image
of my brave and noble friend !" A long and interesting inter-
view ensued, the young Octavia, seated upon the knee of the
old hero, holding him spell-bound with her piquant and fluent
use of his native tongue. He then folded her again to his heart
and blessed her fervently, remarking to one of the committee, as
she left the room: "A truly wonderful child! She has been
convercing ?.ll this while with intelligence and tact in the purest
Prench. I predict for her a brilliant career." Oracnlar words,
which the records of years have more than confirmed.
Bat Octavia Walton did not sit passively down to await the
OCTAVIA WALTON LEYERT. 19
fulfillment of Lafayette's prophecy. One great secret of her
success lies in her indefatigable industry. Only by close
application has she taken the true gauge of herself — brought
into view every resource — into play every faculty ; only thus
has she become conversant with classical and scientific studies,
made herself mistress of many languages, a proficient in music,
an eloquent conversationist, and a ready writer ; and, by a no
less fine and careful culture, has she been able, in every phase of
her life, to evolve only light and warmth from her large human
heart ; to bring to the surface the best qualities of all who
came within her influence; to charm away detraction, and to
preserve, apart from her world-woman aspect, a child-nature,
as pure and undimmed as a pearl in the sea.
Octa^da was never placed within the walls of a schoolroom.
Her motiier and grandmother, both women of intellect and cul-
tivation, vied with each other in developing her earlier mental
life, and private tutors were provided to meet the needs of her
advance. She and her brother pursued their studies for years
under the eye of an old Scotchman, a fine classic scholar and
linguist, who had lived in the family since their birth, as devoted
an adherent as was ever Dominie Sampson to the House of
Bertram.
Soon after their removal to Mobile, Octavia, in company
with her mother and brother, made the tour of the United States ;
and then commenced the remarkable career as a social genius,
which gave to the name of Octavia Walton its world-wide cele-
brity. Possessing the entree of the most select circles in each
city of the Union, she suddenly awoke to the fact that she held
also a magic key to human hearts, and could sway at will the
moods and emotions of those who surrounded her — a knowledge
and position alike dangerous. She was crowned "reigning
belle " by acclamation : a title, which, worn as it so often is by
the weak and frivolous, or the vain and heartless, has ever done
20 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
injustice to tlie high-toned and comprehensive character of our
author. That she was more than a mere belle is proved bj the
fact that her name was never spoken lightly, and of all who then
offered her the highest tribute in the gift of man, she has never
lost a friend.
These were the good old dajs of stage-coaches, when travel-
lers, thrown together by the accident of sympathy in the
" destined end or way," had ample time to cultivate affinities or
antipathies ; and it so happened that our party became greatly
interested in a strange gentleman, who took his seat among
them each morning, as naturally as if included in the first
arrangement. There was a pleasing mystery about him. He
was in the meridian of life, of a most gracious presence : had evi-
dently been the round world over : was possessed of a fund of
humor and anecdote, and conversed with clearness and elegance,
like one accustomed to wi'ite out impressions ; he was certainly
a distinguished somebody — and who ?
There was too much good breeding on both sides to evince
curiosity. The unknown continued to grow into favor, espe-
cially with the young Octavia, whose vivacious intelligence
seemed very much to delight him. One day, as she was con-
versing with her brother in Spanish, the stranger, with a quiet
grace, joined in the conversation ; he had spent some years in
Spain, and was at home in the language. While describing in
his graphic way a bull-fight which he had witnessed, he dwelt
particularly upon a singular incident that occurred in connec-
tion. Peculiar as the incident was to that one occasion, Octavia
is certain she has heard it in some way before.
" It cannot be," said the narrator, " for I am sure there is
no record of it, and you have never been in Spain."
But Octavia was never known to forget. "With a moment's
thought her whole face brightened.
" You are Washington Irving." *
\ OCTAVIAAVALTONLEVERT. 21
" And pray viTiy am I Washington Irving ?"
" Because now I remember tliat Mr. S 11, of IST. O., told
me of this identical incident, and added that Washington Irving
stood by his side when he witnessed it."
So here was revealed the genial writer of the " Sketch
Book," no stranger after all, but an old and dear friend, whose
name was a household word. The stage-coach party became at
once a fireside circle, unrestrained, harmonious, warmed and
lighted by the glow of a common sympathy. Impressed more
and more with the quick retentive quality of Octavia's mind,
her large observation and racy expression, Mr. Irving advised
her to commence a journal, dating from this, her first experience
as a traveller ; adding that she would be sure some day to find
it an invaluable resource. From that time to the present her
life has been journalized ; a mine indeed of rich material for the
autobiography which it is hoped she will yet give to the world.
Thus began a friendship which was only interrupted by the
death of Mr. Irving. He became her faithful correspondent,
and watched her career from tliat period with true fatherly
interest. During her last visit to Kew York, he sought her
more than once in the crowded saloons of the St. l^icholas, and
twice claimed her as his guest. Their last interview at " Sunny
Side " was filled with reminiscent chat, in which the stage-
coach party was vividly pictured, and the genial host dwelt
in his happiest vein upon all the incidents of the journey. At
parting, he said softly : " I feel as if the sunshine was all going
away with you, my child." It was their last meeting on earth,
and this beautiful tribute has now a sacred value.
During the administration of Jackson, in those memorable
times, when, with a daring hand, he removed the deposits,
Octavia Walton was each day an earnest listener to the debates
in Congress, and transferred at once to the pages of her diary
the speeches of Calhoun, Clay, and Webster. These three were
22 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
lier warm personal friends, especially Mr. Clay, to whose
memory she has since offered a glowing and affectionate testi-
monial.
In 1836, she married Dr. Henry Le Yert, of Mobile, a man
equally noted for his professional sli;ill and high moral worth.
His father. Dr. Claude Le Yert, who was a native of France,
came to America with Lafayette, as fleet surgeon under
ilochambeau, and was present at the taking of Yorktown. In
the palace of Yersailles there is a large painting representing
the reception of Rochambeau and his officers by "Washington ;
conspicuous, on the left, may be seen the fine head and com-
manding person of Dr. Claude Le Yert. After peace was pro-
claimed, he left the French navy and settled in Yirginia, where
he married Miss Metcalf, the niece of Admiral Yernon, in
honor of whom Lawrence Washington, who had served under
him in South America, named his country seat " Mount Yer-
non." After his death his widow removed with her two child-
ren to Alabama. The youngest son, Henry Le Yert, then
adopted the profession of his father, graduated at Philadelphia,
and established himself in Mobile, where he has since resided, a
leading physician of the State. Many a noble act of his, per-
formed secretly in the lowliest walks of his profession, has been
recorded, and will yet appear. In these generous ministrations
he has ever found a willing coadjutor in Madame Le Yert.
The " Belle of the Union " could preside with equal grace and
effectiveness in the crowded drawing-rooms of fashion, and by
the bedside of the suffering poor. Most of all was she happy in
her home and children. But clouds were gathering.
Her first sorrow came in 1849, with the death of her only
brother, a man of rare personal and intellectual graces, to
whom her very soul was knitted. Six weeks after, two sweet
children were taken. Prostrated in body and spirit by these
bereavements, she secluded herself for three yevii-s from society.
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 23
Most opportune and beneficent, tlien, was a visit from the
Lady Emeline Stuart Wortlej, among whose writings may be
foimd a glowing tribute to our author, and to the memory of
the departed.
In the summer of 1853, yielding to the solicitations of
friends, she accepted an invitation from the Duke of Rutland,
and in company with her father and daughter, sailed for Eng-
land. It is not necessary to follow her there. All are familiar
with the details of her reception in London and tour through
Europe. As one has said,* " There probably was never a more
eignal success in the way of access to foreign society, friendly
attentions from the nobility and notice from royalty, than fell to
the share of Madame Le Vert." She undoubtedly owed to the
Lady Emeline Wortley the empressement of her first reception,
but to her own magnetic personality is due the rest. It is our
pride that prestige of presence, and not of title, was her key to
the most imposing court of Europe ; while we dwell with some-
thing better than pride upon traces of her influence, glowing
not in printed columns, but written ever in the grateful hearts of
a foreign peasantry.
Li 1854, she returned to America ; but after spending one
year in the quiet of her own home was persuaded to revisit
Europe in company with her husband and daughter. Out of
these tours grew the " Souvenirs of Travel," to which we are
indebted for such impressions of European life as could have
come to us tlii'ough no other medium- Made up of familiar
letters to lier mother, the book has all the freshness and vivacity
of the author's own effluent presence. It is like nothing we
ever read, unless we except a description {v)hich it contains) of
the play of the " Fountains at Yersailles." Over and around
all, like an atmosphere, floats the couleur de rose, which belongs
• N. P. Willis.
24 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
not to the belle of many seasons, not to the cool and cautions
world-woman, but to the simple-hearted and impressionable
child. "We feel as if some good fairy had spirited us away over
the sea, and was leading us by the hand through fairyland.
All irregularities, clouds, and waste places — all sad and fearful
things, are softened and tinted till they become simply pictur-
esque ; while all culture and beauty, all graces and courtesies,
are so glorified in amber and rose, we say, " Surely the face of
the old world is more bonnie than the face of the new !" But
we have been looking through the eyes of our fairy — a medium
which accepts no shadows. In this book Madame Le Yert has
sent forth a true type of herself ; the upturned disc of her soul
meets always the broad disc of the sun.
To us there is something very beautiful in the enthusias-m
which has outlived adulation and every other corrosive influ-
ence, and can walk abroad each day under its own rainbows.
Pens dipped in a fountain of perennial youth are the exception
among us ; while there is no lack of homilies, croakings, curt-
ness, causticity, and phleghm. It is refreshing to come upon a
writer who knows not, and so fears not, the hard, cynical side
of life.
Our author does not use the skill which she really j)Ossesses in
delineating character. It does not consist with her abounding
charity to be nicely critical ; she gleans from the surface what-
ever seems fair, and leaves the rest for those who have a taste
for uncomfortable discoveries ; so her portraits sometimes lack
the strong lines and salient points of the analyst. But there
are channels, aside from the deep and winding one of human
nature, where her descriptive power courses with strength and
impressiveness. "The way over the Simplon," "The Ascent
and Eruption of Yesuvius," " Moonlight in Yenice," and " The
Golden and Silver Illuminations," and other ceremonies of holy
week, are a few among many scenes described in a graphic and
OCTAVIA WALTOX LE VERT. 25
felicitous manner. " "We should as soon tliink," says, most hap-
pily, a woman of fine genius and critical acumen,* " of sitting
down to dissect the bird whose song had charmed us, as to
break upon the wheel of criticism a book springing so much
from the heart-side of the author." Says^ another — a southern
poet — whose sketch forms a part of this volume, and whose
noble discriminating review of the " Souvenirs " circulated
widely in this country and Europe : " She writes as the flower
blooms, because it is bathed in dew, fanned by the breeze, and
kindled up by the sunshine, till it bursts its inclosing petals,
and lavishes its fragrance and sweet life upon the air. She
receives, as it were by intuition, the idea of the ancient Greeks,
that the whole universe is a ' Kosmos ' of beauty and order, and
this she presents to the reader not as a pleasant theory, but a
sublime truth. And yet at times, as if to prove how truly she
is woman, a faint shadow lies upon her heart, and is reflected
upon the page — telling that she has entered the temple of
memory, and, passing by little graves at the thereshold still
guarded by love and sorrow, her spirit treads silently the hal-
lowed chamber of tears."
In entering the field of authorship, Madame Le Yert would
seem, at last, to have tested the ore of every vein of her versatile
genius. To watch the play of manifold graces — to listen to
the something new always unfolding from a well-stored mind, is
a pleasure which the crowd appreciates, and this fair daugliter
of the land was in danger of frittering herself away. ISTow she
has written a book ; and to do this requires the solitude which
In'ings one face to face with one's self — the introversion which
deepens — the reserve Avhicli fortifies ; while a book that con-
tains, in any sort, the soul and sinew of the writer, is something
i-lucked from the hurrying tide ; something to be taken ,ten-
* The author of " The Sinless Child."
26 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
derly down from its nook in the old library, tlirougli manj
generations. In this light especially these "Souvenirs" are
invaluable.
Lamartine, it is said, first suggested the book, and gave it a
name. It happened in this wise. Madame Le Yert had been
describing to him, in her own way, a recent sojourn in Spain ;
as she paused, he said earnestly, his poet-eye beaming with the
conviction : " Madame, you have one gift of which you yourself
are unaware. You are a natural improvisatrice. ISTow, because
you are not an Italian, you cannot be an im^ovisat/rice^ but
you can be a writer ; you can fill with pleasure the hearts of
your nation by describing what you have seen to them as you
are now delighting me. When the excitements of your tour
are over, and you are once more quietly at home, will you not
•remember, madame, what I have said, and employ your leisure
in giving to the world a few souvenirs of your European life ?"
That she did remember, literally and religiously, is proved
by the book and its title.
At one period of our author's life, during an illness which
confined her to the house without prostrating her energies, she
translated in the most faithful and spirited manner, Dumas'
" Musketeers ;" and a few months since, there appeared in the
.columns of the " Mobile Register " a translation by her of the
pamphlet, " The Pope and the Congress." This is pronounced
by French scholars the most admirable rendering which has
yet appeared. Entirely at home in the French, Spanish, and
Italian languages, she cannot fail to do justice to them in
translation.
Among all her occupations, no one has labored more zeal-
ously than herself in the cause of securing Mount Yernon.
She was one of the first to advocate the project, and as Yice-
Eegent of the Association for Alabama, has not only succeeded
in raising by personal efforts an unexpected amount, but has
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 9*?
herself contributed substantially to the common fund. It is a
j&tting tribute from the grandchild of George Walton to the
manes of George Washington.
Among many sketches of " Madame Le Yert at home " we
make brief extracts from one or two, which we select for their
distinct features and cojnparatwe freedom from extravagance.
A popular writer,* whose essays upon art ancf humanity evince
much discrimination, and who says he
"Would not flatter Neptune for his trident,
Nor Jove for his power to thunder,"
thus writes of our author :
" Her residence is on Government street, in the most con-
venient and central part of Mobile. It is a plain, substantial
mansion, combining taste, elegance, and comfort. She has an
immense library, and rare works of art. A genuine republi-
can in her feelings, she respects and cherishes all genius and
merit, however humble its condition or origin. Whoever has
talent and moral worth has a claim upon her. She is kind and
hospitable simply for the pleasure of doing good, because it is
her nature to be so. ~^o human being has ever been pained
by an unkind or ungenerous act of hers. In conversation she
never flags, yet never utters a commonplace."
Fredrika Bremer says of her :
" It is so strange that that little worldly lady, whom I had
heard spoken of as a belle, and as the most splendid ornament
of society wherever she went, has yet become almost as dear to
me as a young sister ! But she has become so from being so
very excellent, because she has suffered much, and b^-^&use
under a worldly exterior there is an unusually sound an(f f^'re
* Adam Badeau.
28 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
intellect, and a heart full of affection, wliicli can cast aside all
the vanities of tlie world for the power of gratifying those
whom she loves. This fair daughter of Florida is surrounded
bj a circle of relatives who seem to regard her as the apple of
their eye ; and if you would see the ideal of the relationship
between a lady and her female slave, you should see Octavia
Le Yert and her clever, handsome, mulatto attendant, Betsey.
Betsey seems really not to live for anything else than for her
mistress, Octavia,"
A good Catholic editor flows out in the following tribute to
her conversational powers :
" I defy anybody to spend an hour in her company without
rising up a wiser and better man, having a sense of musical
joyance in his heart, because of her words, which
" ' Did all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
• As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundred airy harps.' " ■>
In enumerating the ruling characteristics of Madame Le
Yert, we must not forget one which stands out perhaps more
prominently than any other— her devotion to her mother. We
do not remember ever to have seen the filial relation more fully
; "ealized. The mother is worthy of the daughter ; a thorough
gentlewoman of large heart, and brilliant, versatile gifts;
indeed, we have heard it said that when the two have appeared
together in " society, the former has sometimes been obliged to
" look to her laurels." It is frequently the case, that mother,
daughter and grand-daughter attend the same party, dance in
the same quadrille, and attract their own separate corner-
coteries.
Prevented, by a painful accident, from prosecuting the work,
" Souvenirs of Distinguished People," long since announced by
her publishers — Madame Le Yert has spent the last year
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 29
quietly at liome in a state of patient receptivity. As soon as
she is sufficiently recovered to endure tlie fatigue of travelling
her faithful physician, Dr. Le Yert — prescribes a tour to the
Holy Land. This most interesting journey accomplished, we
shall look confidently, not only for another book of travels, bilt
for the postponed work, whose material is all ready to her
hand in the affluent pages of her diary.
AN ADDEESS
UPON LAYING THE CORNER STONE OF THE MONUMENT TO HENRY CLAT,
(Written at the request of the Clay Monumental Association.)
"While the patriotic sons of our countr j are uniting in a testimonial to the
memory of Henry Clay,, shall not Avoman be alloAved to place the flowers of
gratitude and affection upon the altar of his fame ?
To none were the genius and services of the illustrious statesman and
orator more dear than to his countrywomen : with all those lofty and com-
manding qualities which sway senates, and guide the course of empires, he
had a heroism of heart, a chivalry of deportment, a deference of demeanor,
which while forming the soul and secret of his impassioned eloquence, were
irresistible talismans over the minds of the gentler sex.
Great as he was in the "forum of nations," or before multitudes of men,
controlling them by his " gleaming finger," as with the wand of an enchanter,
it was in the home circle, by the domestic fireside, that his character was
seen in its true grace and loveliness ; there his voice, that lately rang like a
trumpet amid his assembled peers, and whose undying echoes (the richest
symphonies of patriotism) are still reverberating from the white hills of New,
England to the parapets of the Pacific, was attuned to all the softest cadences
of social and intellectual intercourse. How delightful it was then to listen
to the playful repartee, the genial anecdotes, the sparkling dojimots, the vivid
reminiscences of European and American society, and the always elevated
sentiments of one who had mingled in the most prominent scenes of his time
in both hemispheres, without losing in the least the lofty manliness, sincerity,
and purity of his nature.
Rousseau once said "there are no compliments like a king's;" but ho\r
much more fascinating and even royal than all the persiflage of a Bourbon or
a Hapsburg were tlie graceful jiraises and felicitous commendations of such a
30 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
man as Mr. Clay, an unquestioned king of mind by the true right divine,
when, with eyes beaming like gems, his high white brow,
" That dome of thought, that palace of the soul,"
radiant with benignity, and encircled by his silvery locks as by a crown, his
aged lips wreathed by the gentlest of smiles, he stood before you in tall,
stately majesty. At such times he seemed to blend the graces of Sheridan
with the dignity of Washington. Thousands and thousands of his country-
women will long thus recall him to mind.
But not alone in this, his more private character, does woman appreciate
the excellence of Mr. Clay. His public life, in many of its aspects, had all
the romance of chivalry. He stood among the orators and statesmen of his
time as Philip Sidney amid his contemporary knights and barons. History
has already placed his statue in the pantheon of immortality !
Our country's records, from the purchase of Louisiana (this lovely land
of the sugar-cane and magnolia) to the great pacification of 1850, are vitalized
by his glowing words. The mighty Mississippi, upon whose margin we now
stand, bears in all its waters a full remembrance of his early efforts to give
freedom to its commerce and to braid its million streams into a mighty band
of union and prosperity for our glorious country.
The fame of Henry Clay can never die. As our most gifted southern
poet has said:
" Long mid our gallant great and good
Like Washington he noblj stood ;
While trembling on his burning tongue,
Truth, justice, peace, and freedom hung.
*' Thrice when our storm-tossed ship of State
Seemed sinking with its priceless freight,
His guardian spirit, firm and free,
Walked o'er our troubled Galilee.
" Through all the world his glorious name
Is whispered by the lips of fame ;
For long in every kindling zone,
His voice was freedom's bugle tone I
*' The Greek girl kneeling by her seas,
Deemed him a new Demosthenes ;
And young Bolivar's patriot ray
Was light like caught from Henry Clay."
OCTAYIA WALTON LE VEKT. 31
How appropriate then is it that a memorial of this model statesman,
patriot and orator, should be erected here in the crescent bend of the Mis-
sissippi.
. Not far off rises the sculptured image of his great rival compatriot : the
one was the sword and shield, the other the mind and the tongue of the
country. Side by side they stand in the temple of fame.
Glorious in their lives, let the noblest of the fine arts here place their
sculptured forms together, that future generations may gaze in love, gratitude
and veneration upon them, and be nobly stimulated in the paths of patriotism,
while they feel the refining influence which the beautiful in art always exerts
upon its votaries.
The statue of Themistocles long greeted from a promontory in Greece the
home-returning voyager, and fired afresh his love for Attica and Athens. So
may the statue of our patriotic orator ever inspire with emulating fervor the
citizens,.of this land of liberty, and especially of this prosperous city pf New
Orleans.
AprU 12, 1S56.
ADDRESS TO THE CONTINENTALS OF MOBILE.
Offioees and Soldiers of the Continentals of Mobile :
A most pleasing duty has been confided to me. A number of the patriotic
ladies of our city have prepared with their own hands this beautiful banner,
and requested me to present it to you. Such a service, though embarrassing, .
would, under any circumstances-, be most grateful, as conveying a fitting
tribute from loveliness to chivalry, but especially is it so upon this occasion.
Tour glittering and picturesque costume — that historic uniform — bespeaks
the character of your organization.
How the heart thrills and the eyes brighten at the spectacle ! "What glo-
rious memories of ancestral deeds, of brave devotion, heroic sacrifices, trials,
and triumphs sweep over the mind as we look upon that beloved garb which
once, worn by Washington and Greene, by Sumpter and Mcintosh, pressed
on through all the smoke and blood, the famine and battles of the Revolution,
to the fair land of promise — the rich inheritance of Republican Freedom we
enjoy to-day.
And this day, too, on which you have arrayed yourselves in that sacred
dress, is the anniversary of tlie first blow for independence, the ever memor-
able battle of Lexington ! Well have you, at such a time, with earnest grati-
32 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
tude and a noble determination .to keep alive the lofty sentiments and
generous courage of our fathers^ adopted their Continental uniform as the
badge and habiliments of your soldiery ranks.
My own heart bounds with joy and glowing sympathy as I look upon you ;
for he, my honored grandfather, whose name I proudly still retain, and whose
services and character are my richest legacy, wore that dress when he placed
his hand on the great chart of American Independence.
Hail, then, patriot soldiers ! Hail, gallant Continentals of Mobile ! To
your keeping I shall, as the medium of the fair and lovely donors, confide
this beauty- woven standard. It is the banner of our country ! More glorious
far than the imperial cross of Constantine ! Bear it in peace, as the ensign
of patriotism, the type and bond of our nationality. And should war — a
foreign war — ever crimson those garments with American blood, or shroud
these stars in the smoke of bursting artillery, while you remember that the
recollections of the past, the hopes and affections of the present, are all clus-
tering around your ranks, still bear bravely this flag, as its counterpart was
borne at Lexington and Trenton, at Eutaw and Yorktown, ever in the front of
the fight, the beacon-light of valor, victory, and deathless renown.
Continentals of Mobile, with pride and confidence, I place this banner in
your hands.
AprU 20th, 1867.
AN EYENING WITH LAMARTINE.
Then came an invitation to spend a social evening with him and his lady.
There were only a few literary friends present in addition, and I passed some
of the most enchanting hours I have known for many years with the historian,
his lady, and their friends. Lamartine looks very much like Portz, but is
entirely free from any French manners. He is tall and thin ; has ■vl'hite hair,
and an expression of face indicative of constant and intense reflection. There
is a dreamy, poetical look about the eyes ; and he speaks slowly and with
marked emphasis. His manner is self-possessed, but full of warm cordiality ;
and his words are genial and kind. He is charming in conversation — earnest
and eloquent : with so much feeling in his language as impresses one con-
stantly with his sincerity. He received me with the utmost warmth and
kindness, and seated me by his side, so that I had all of his attentions to
myself. The thread of conversation was unravelled by the usual topics, until
it flowed freely from the ball ; and then it soon wove itself into a thousand
octaviawaltoiTlevert. 33
pleasant themes. But to me the most gratifying of all his kind expressions
were somp that touched upon my native land, and my own descent.
Some one was speaking of the adoration paid to relics in Rome, when
Lamartine ohserved — " all nations have some object they reverence, which,
though perhaps insignificant in itself, is sacred from associations. Your
country, madame, has the most precious of all manuscripts in the world —
the signed Declaration of Independence ! Do not your people make pilgrim-
ages to look upon it V I told him that it was indeed precious to all, but
doubly so to me, as my grandfather's was among those sacred signatures !
Oh ! you should have seen the magic of those few words. Lamartine rose
and bowed to me profoundly. " Madame," said he, " in that name you have
a noble heritage ! It is the patent of true nobility — ever cherish your descent
from such a patriot with honest pride."
Oh, how my heart swelled with pleasure as I answered him ; nor could
the concentrated compliments of all the titled, the wealthy, and the witty in
France have filled my soul with half the proud joy with which I now so
faintly describe to you this evening with Lamartine.
He expresses his intention to visit the United States in the course of a
year or two.
FAREWELL TO YENLOE.
It was past ten o'clock. Still we lingered on the balcony, thinking, in
truth, " it was wronging such a night to sleep." At length we called Antonio,
our family gondolier, and told him to bring out the gondola from its haven,
where it lay beneath the shadow of the ducal palace. In a few moments it
glided to the steps ; the black cabin was removed, so there was no covering
between us and the sky. "We were soon floating along the broad laguna,
leaning back upon the soft cushions, and luxuriating in the matchless beauty of
the scene. Three wontlerful pictures have I beheld in Italy, Avhich will hang
forever on the " walls of memory." One was the illumination of St. Peter's ;
another the Niagara-like cataract of fire pouring from the crater of Vesuvms;
and the third is moonlight in Venice. There is a glory about the moonlight
here never attending it elsewhere ; the smooth sheets of water receive its
beams as though they were immense mirrors, and thence reflecting them
upward, fill the atmosphere with a light of such dazzljng brightness, we con-
stantly exclaimed, " this cannot be night!" It seemed a mingling of the soft
tints of the early morning and the tender radiance of the twilight. Tho air
3
34 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
■was warm and delicious, imparting a gentle langnor to the senses, and lulling
all troublous thoughts and cares to perfect oblivion. It was like i^ beautiful
dream, where we seemed borne up by invisible wings and wafted from joy
to joy.
Along the piazza of San Marco were multitudes of lamps, tlieir rays pierc-
ing the still waters as though they were arrows of light. Every object was
Boftened and rounded by the moonbeams, and its shadow singularly distinct
in the water below it. Thus there appeared two cities, one above and ano-
ther* below the Grand Canal, each with its winged lion. From the open
window of a palace came the sound of merry dancing music, while beneath
another was a gondola with serenaders. We made an entire voyage through
the streets of Venice, passing under the "Bridge of Sighs," which for a
moment shut out the moonlight completely ; then we glided by the palace of
the Foscari, and did not wonder the sad Jacopo was willing to endure even
torture that he .might look upon it again; we lingered for a while beneath the
marble-cased arch of the Eialto, and saw the house of Shy lock and the home
ofOthd'o — thus, "slowly gliding over," we passed all the landmarks of his-
toric and poetic interest.
"To-morrow we part with Italy," I murmured, as we walked for the last
time upon the radiant and moon-lighted city, and deep regret welled up from
the fountain of my heart. I love the beautiful country, it contains so much
to enrapture the fancy and delight the mind. Ah! such happy days we
have spent in its grand old cities, by the classic shores of its memory-haunted
Kediterranean and along its picturesque lakes. One must be insensible to the
glories of the past and to the charms of the present not to love Italy. As the
home of the greatest statesmen, the noblest poets, and bravest heroes of anti-
quity, it is invested with a soul-thrilling interest. As the land where the
early Christians planted firmly the holy cross, emblem of our Saviour's love,
it is truly sacred. Earth, sky and air possess here a beauty unknown in
other climes. Every city has some treasure of painting, sculpture or science.
Each river, vale, and mountain has its poetic or historic legend. In the
forms of its poorest inhabitants we often, see the loveliness and manly grace
which gave to Phidias and to Praxiteles the models of the peerless statues of
the Venus de Medici and the Apollo Belvidere. A mournful feeling of com-
passion for her present wrongs must endear Italy to the American heart, since
from the skeleton form of her once glorious republic we have seized the
outline of the noble fabric of our own free and independent govern-
ment.
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 35
In all our wanderings through this lovely land, we have never encountered
one disagreeable incident, or met with look or word of rudeness or unkind-
ness. The people have everywhere been cordial and thoughtful of our happi-
ness and pleasure. There may have been times when we were uncomfort-
able and wearied — when we were vastly troubled by beggars and annoyed by
overcharging innkeepers ; but these were trifles, like motes seen for a moment
in the sunlight, then vanishing away. Hillard, whose admirable book on
Italy I have read since my return to America, says most truly: " It is only
the hours of sunshine that are marked upon the dial of memory." Thas shall
I ever cherish the pleasures we have experienced here and the remembrance
of the dear friends who have gladdened our sojourn in beautiful Italy.
THE WAY OVER THE SIKPLOK
Now we perceived the Herculean labor of making the road. There were
miles of solid masonry and hundreds of feet of galleries formed partly of the
living rock and partly ot huge pillars of stone and mortar. The turnings and
windings of the way were really incredible. One valley we passed entirely
around three times upon ledges or terraces, bnilt one above the other, as
though they belonged to some giant hanging garden. When we gained the
summit we could trace far below us the narrow track like a white seam upon
the mountain-side. Well might Sir James Mackintosh say of this road : " It
is the greatest of all those monuments that dazzle the imagination by their
splendor, and are subservient to general convenience."
The first gallery we entered was that ofSchalbet, ninety-five feet long, and
emerging from it we beheld all the glory of the Bernese Alps. These were
the peaks of the Briethorn and Aletsch Horner^ and the Yiescher Horner^
standing in bold relief against the clear sky. Their summits were covered,
with snow, while between them appeared the glaciers of Aletsch^ the most
extensive of the Alps. The scene was indescribably grand.
The glacier of the Kaltwasser was just above us, i^t more than a hundred
yards away. The color of the ice was of the deepest blue, with long streaks
of white through it, caused by the melting of the mass. Several torrents
rushed from beneath it, and fell over the cliffs in sheets of snow-like foam ;
our eyes followed ihem until they were lost in the dim depths, thousands and
thousands of feet below. Far above, where no human feet have trod, were
the wild goats (the chamois of the Alps), standing in perfect security upon
36 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
the topmost peak of the Simplon, wliicli was uncovered, although around and
below it the " everlasting snows " lay pure and deep.
Along this portion of the road the avalanches are frequent ; also the tour-
i^entes. (sudden storms). Hence the construction of many galleries as places
of protection. They are made in such a manner that the avalanches slide
py^r them and fall into the valleys helow. After passing through one of
these long-arched tunnels, termed the "glacier galleries," with great aper-
tiires like windows, we found ourselves heneath a waterfall, which came
roaring from the glaciers ahove, and rushed over the rocks, forming the roof
of pur gallery ; thus we heheld the fearful sight, while we felt ourselves in
safety.
From gallery to gallery we drove on until we came out upon the edge of
the precipice. Then for the first time a sensation of fear thrilled our hearts,
or rather of awe. Before us were the Bernese Alps in their lonely grandeur.
Far helow into caverns and chasms of untold depth fell the glacier torrents,
enchoing from peak to peak the music of the waterfall. Far above all, arose the
summit of the Simplon in white and chilly grandeur. It was entirely covered
with snow, save a few pulpit-shaped rocks. Around it was a crown of clouds,
touched by the sunbeams and wrought into fantastic banks of rose-hue,
exquisitely beautiful to behold. Neither shrub, tree, nor flower formed a
portion of the majestic spectacle, where "Alps rose over Alps," while the
brilliant snow of ages, the eternal glaciers, and the mighty rocks reigned
supreme. JSTever did I feel my scil more perfectly raised from " Nature up
to Nature's God!" "Who could be a skeptic in a scene like this, where the
hand of the " Great Architect" is so manifest in the glories of his creation ?
A feeling of profound gratitude filled my bosom that my eyes had dwelt
upon this glorious mountain-world, and that within my memory it would
be a joy forever.
Higher and higher we went, until we perceived near us the little cross
marking the culminating point of the road, six thousand five hundred and
seventy-eight feet above the level of the sea. Although the elevation was so
great, the atmosphere was pleasantly warm, and the air so pure and clear,
objects exceedingly distant seemed incredibly near. We left the diligence
and climbed a rocky eminence, where we drank a bumper of Jleurie to
"those we love best" in our far-away home, turning our faces westward
toward our heart's JIfccca, as we wafted them blessings fond and true.
Across a grey, barren plain, we drove to a large hospice, commenced by
t^e command of Napoleon, and since completed. It is occupied by friars of
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 37
the Augustine order. They give shelter to travellers during periods of stormy
weather. We saw there the dogs of the great St. Bernard ; they are almost
as large as a well-grown calf, and are covered with thick, shaggy hair.
Father Barras came out to speak with us. He is noted for his kinxlness to
strangers, and has a most benevolent face.
Along the Simploa road there are six houses of refuge for " the traveller
worn and weary." They are most valuable asylums, for the tempests often
arise so suddenly, it would be impossible to escape certain destruction were
not these places of protection wisely placed within the reach of the wayfarer.
Then the avalanches occur when the " heavens are brightest." We heard
the crushing sound of one, but it was happily far away from us in a distant
valley. The houses of refuge are built with massive walls and furnished with
an abundance of fire-wood. Some few are occupied by miserable-looking
peasants, who will wait upon a stranger for a good compensation. Others
are left open, and all enter who wish, free and without cliarge.
Often have I spoken of the delight we have experienced in meeting
friends and acquaintances in all our wanderings. But we did not imagine,
amid the glaciers and the eternal snows, almost in the skies (for some
clouds were below us), that we should still find one. During all the day we
had remarked a handsome man^ with a noble, distinguished air, walking
at times along the mountain-road. Updii inquiry We discovered he was the
owner of the carriage following our diligence. When we stopped at the
hospice he came up to us, and presented us with a bouquet of Alpine flowers
which he had gathered during the morning. There was a certain grace
and gallant manner Which at once induced me to believe he was an Ameri-
can ; therefore, to be assured of my suspicion, I made some remark concern-
ing "our country," and found we had knoWn each other well in "day«
long past;" and thus on the summit of the mountain I met a friend. It
was truly a bright and sparkling incident in " the pass of the Siniplon." Mi*.
Ogden was with a party of intelligent gentlemen from the United States, who
were journeying our way, and we travelled together several days.
At Simplon (Semplone in Italian) we dined, and then proceeded on to
thg Galleiy of Algahy^ the first on the Italian side of the mountain. It is
along the Doveria, near where it rushes into the Gorge of Gondo. Words
cannot even give a shadow of the wild and savage grandeur of this Alpine
gorge. Goethe, in his "Faust," has pictured just such scenes of mysterious
gloom. The mountains appeared to have been rent asunder by some fierce
convulsion of nature, leaving a passway for the Doveria, which rushes
38 WOME>f OF THE SOUTH.
through, sometimes a roaring river, then falling, a grand cataract, into the
dark chasm below. The road is upon a terrace of solid masonry, or else upon
a ledge cut in the rock, directly along the verge of the torrent. Far above,
on the top of the cliflf, was a fringe of fir-trees ; all below them, was the bar-
ren grey rock, in places perfectly white, from the sheets of snowy foam,
caused by the myriads of waterfalls which came dashing down their sides, and
were lost in mists ere they reached the Doveria.
"We crossed the rushing river upon the Ponte Alto, and came to a pro-
jection of the mountain it seemed utterly impossible to pass. But the skillful
engineers had accomplished wonders ; instead of going round it, we suddenly
dived into the Grallery of Gondo, six hundred feet long. It appeared inter-
minable, although there were great windows to give light. At last the guard
called out we were nearly through. Infinite was our amazement and terror
when the diligence emerged from the gallery, and passed under the great
waterfall of the Frascinnone. Our hearts almost ceased to beat, as the foam
of the roaring, wildly-rushing torrent dashed into our faces, and a sound like
that of the crashing avalanche assailed our ears. I suppose that we screamed ;
but the human voice was unheard in the fierce tumult of waters. We were
only two minutes beneath the cataract, they told us ; but fear so painfully
magnified the time, it really seemed an hour. The cascade descending from
the highest point of the rocky battlement above, leaves a space between the
stream and the clifi", along which the workmen have cut a kind of huge shelf
where the road passes. Although apparently so dangerous, we were assured
it was entirely safe. "When beyond the reach of the spray, we insisted upon
stopping, that we might look upon the Frascinnone waterfall. It was a
scene of matchless grandeur ! The immense mountains rose up as high as
the Hawk's Nest of the Kanawha Eiver. A little strip of sky appeared to
roof over the great abyss, where the Doveria torrents and ourselves were
sole occupants.
EPvUPTIOIf OF VESUYIUS.
The night was calm — not a wavelet disturbed the mirror-like surface of
the bay. The moon, high in the heavens, was casting a long train of radi-
ance over its waters. Parallel with the moonbeams fell the crimson light
from the volcano, while between them lay a space of deep, deep blue, like a
pavement of sapphire. How strangely beautiful was the scene! Palaces
and domes, spires and churches, ships and little boats, were all touched with
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 39
silvery light, or glowing in the crimson rays of the "fiery mountain." Along
the mole were clustered hundreds of Neapolitan, fishermen, urging the
passers-by to embark with them for a row across to the base of Vesuvius,
their dark, gipsy-like faces singularly wild by the gleams of the red light.
But the mountain ! It was perfectly wonderful ! blazing and flaming like
— but to what shall I compare it? In truth, it was like Shakspeare's Richard,
" itself alone." Down the side poured a cataract of lava, while from the crater
sprang up at times great blood-red stones, which seemed poised in air for a
,few seconds, then fell crashing down below. Although we were eight or ten
miles distant, we heard the "voice of the mountain" above all other sounds
of earth or air. Clouds of smoke hung in festoons around the highest peak
of Vesuvius ; and though there was no wind, they were constantly changing
into most fantastic forms, now presenting the appearance of a lion, then an
eagle with a scroll of fire in his talons, or a procession of monks with black
cowls, or palaces, or castles, all tinged with a crimson hue.
At five we left Naples in an open barouche, drawn by three strong horses,
and drove rapidly through Portici, and up the mountain to the Hermitage,
passing through the vineyards from whose grapes the Lachrymm Christi win©
is made. The road was thronged with carriages, horsemen, donkeys, and
pedestrians by thoasands. It was an exquisite evening, and the very heavens
seemed to rejoice in the universal happiness; for an eruption of Vesuvius is
a benefaction to the Neapolitans. Smiling joy was pictured on every face.
The beggars even ceased to rap their chins and to cry " morte di fame."
The lame hobbled along merrily, and the blind stretched out their hands, as
though to feel the happiness they could not see. There were crowds of hand-
some peasant-women, with sparkling eyes and ruddy cheeks, hastening up.
Even the poor little infants many carried, were laughing in spite of being
wrapped up like Egyptian mummies, and tacked under their mothers' arms
as though they were great loaves of bread.
At the Hermitage, midway to the summit, there was a scene precisely
like a race-field in America. Hundreds and hundreds of carriages were all
crammed together, while the drivers were swearing and gesticulating furi-
ously. We gladly left our barouche, and hastened down a pathway through
a grove of young chestnut-trees, which brought us, after a brisk walk, to the
verge of the lava flood. It poured from the crater far above, and formed a
stream many miles in length. It was a deep burning red, with here and there
a little island of black, caused by the cooling of the surface of the fiery river-
40 WOMENOFTHESOUTH.
From this ravine we climbed up tiie heights above, and approached nearer
the crater. There "we encountered our guide Beppo, who made the ascent
Tsith ns. The instant he perceived as, he cried out, '■'■Bene! "bene! Signora!
You remember three days ago, when I allowed you to stop on the side of the
cone, and you asked me about the little serpent of smoke that burst from tlie
lava, when the great mountain thundered, — Itene ! that was the mouth of the
crater, and the fire was trying to open it. You see what it has done now.
Grazie a Dio ! we shaU eat macaroni to-night!"
Precisely true were the words of Beppo. Just where I had gathered up
pieces of hot lava, and heard far, far down below a wild, fierce murmur,
almost like the utterance of human agony, a new crater had opened its flam-
ing mouth, whence came a torrent of lava, sixty or seventy feet in width,
flowing down the very path by which we had ascended. It did not dash
rapidly along, as does the water, but moved slowly and majestically. It was
only when a rocky barrier stayed its progress, that it would swell up into
grand waves of fire, and madly dash over it. Imagine Trenton Falls, with
every drop of water turned to flame, pouring over ledge after ledge of rocks ;
or the Anio a river of fire, rushing wildly over the heights of Tivoli, and
some faint idea may be formed of the lava- cataract of Yesuvius.
SILVER AND GOLDEN" ILLUMINATION'S.
At sunset we drove in an open barouche to St. Peter's, and stopped just
within the colonnades. An immense concom-se of people, almost equal to
the throng of the morning, was assembled in the Piazza. The carriages
were drawn up in lines precisely as upon our race-courses in America. The
mounted police, with drawn sabres, kept order over the movements of the
crowd. A hoarse murmur, like the sound of a distant cataract, rose up from
the dense mass of human beings. As twilight melted into darkness, along
the front of the church spi-ang up innumerable gleaming lights, until frieze,
coltimn, cornice, and pillar, were all traced out in fire. This was the " silver "
illumination. We gazed upon this for some time, in wonder and admiration,
when the great bell of St. Peter's tolled the hour of eight. At the first
stroke a meteor, as though from the sky above, darted from the summit of
the dome, and fixed itself upon the top of the cross ; then as quick as thought,
swift as electricity, thousands and thousands of blazing fires flashed over the
noble structure, along the graceful colonnades, around the statues, and
OCTAVIA "WALTON LE VERT. 41
beneath the arches. The waters of the fountams, catching the vivid radiance,
fell like drops of liquid gold into the marble basins. Glorious was the spec-
tacle— a miracle of beauty! It seemed some vision of enchantment — a
cathedral of flame, whose perfect architecture was all revealed in glittering
light. A slight wind caused the fires to waver to and fro, as though they
were stars which had fallen from their sphere above, and were now trem-
bling and fluttering in their new abode.
BALL OF THE COTJJ^TESS DE Vi^ALEWSKL
July 2Qth. — A few nights ago we attended a magnificent ball at the palace
of the Count and Countess de "Walewski, on the banks of the Seine, near the
Chamber of Deputies. The Count (now Minister of Foreign Affairs) was
arnbassador at the Court of St. James for several years, where both himself
and liis lovely wife were exceedingly admired. At Queen Victoria's state
ball in Buckingham Palace (during our first visit to England) I had been
presented to them, and was earnestly pleased to meet them again.
Twelve rooms were opened, quite as splendid as those of the Tuileries or
the Hdtel de Yille. They were each hung with a different-colored damask,
and so highly gilded, they shone like the palace of the " Gold King." The
chandeliers were singularly pretty, formed of large bouquets of flowers,
whence the light issued. Just beneath a large one, fashioned like white
lilies, was an elegant crimson divan, the centre of which was a perfect bank
of bright-hued verbenas, geraniums, and heliotropes. Around this spot the
ladies were clustered, much more at home and as radiant as the flowers
themselves. As it was the reception-room, the graceful Countess stood near
this group, greeting her guests as they entered with sweet words and gracious
smiles. She kindly welcomed us to France, and gave us a seat near her,
where we remarked the entree of many distinguished and elegant people.
All the " dignitaries of the state " were there, the ministers, and a number
of the English nobility ; among them the Duke and Duchess of Hamilton ;
then Prince Napoleon, President of the Exposition, and his two cousins,
Charles and Lncien Bonaparte. The Turkish Ambassador has a A-ery inte-
resting face, with eyes of wonderful size and brightness. He was dressed in
the modern costume, except the crimson fez upon his head ; and then he
wore no cravat, ln;t a wide black ribbon around his neck, to which was
attached a medallion of diamonds of dazzling light. He was accompanied
42 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
hj imineroTis young attaches, uncommonly handsome men, who were really
the most caressed beaux of the ball. Their soft and beautiful eyes seemed
to possess a magnetic power over the hearts of the fair ones around them.
There were two Egyptians of noble presence (quite as dark-skinned as our
Betsey,) and a Haytien prince, entirely black. His manner was grave and
dignified.
A few officers in glittering uniforms were present. Several had recently
returned from the Crimea, and were still pale and weak from the wounds
received there.
The ladies' dresses were very brilliant, and precious jewels sparkled
on their bosoms, and bracelets of rare value clasped their arms. But to
the vast circumference of the petticoats our eyes have not yet become
accustomed. They are formed of crinoline (a fabric made of horse-hair),
with a quilling of it around the bottom to keep the huge circle distended.
They resemble half-inflated balloons, just rising from the ground, and the
wearers appear compelled to push the skirts along as they walk. The courtesy,
or curtsy, now in vogue, is most extraordinary. The ladies can no longer
move back a step or two, and incline forward (as was their custom formerly),
without knocking over some small man by the weight of their petticoats ;
therefore, instead of bending forward, they give a sudden "duck down,"
very much after the style of little Chloe when old Aunt Charlotte directs
her in their Sunday visits to say, "How do 'ee do. Missis!" Yet how
omnipotent is this fashion ! How it reconciles us to utter monstrosities, and
after a time makes us deem them undoubted beauties ! Hence you must not
wonder to find us, on our return, pushing along our heavy skirts, and rolling
to and fro like half-collapsed balloons !
Serving-men in gorgeous liveries were constantly handing around ices,
although there was a sumptuous huffet, where every variety of refreshment
was politely served to the guests.
We made the acquaintance of many agreeable people, among them the
Princess Ghika, daughter of the reigning prince of Wallachia. She is mar-
ried to a French gentleman, who occupied some diplomatic position in her
country. We found lier a charming woman, and accompanied her and the
Turkish Ambassador to supper, where we had a famously merry time. Not
far from us was the Count de Morny, whom Talleyrand prophesied (when
he was only a child) would be a Prime Minister of France. His devotion
to the emperor, at the time of the coup d''etat of December, is known to
the whole world. Count de Morny, although not more than forty-three
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 43
*
or four, is quite bald ; he has a quiet, dignified air, and the self-possession
• of a man of profound intellect.
After leaving the supper-rooms we went out into the gardens, which were
lighted by colored lamps hanging from trees and shrubs. The scene was
most inviting, and the fresh perfume of the flowers delicious. Music from
the palace floated upon the air, and mingled with the sound of the falling
waters of the fountains, while lovely forms flitted to and fro amid the green
foliage. How delightful it was I
THE COLISEUM.
The Coliseum is crumbling fast away ; Kome has fallen from her early
grandeur ; but the world progresses more proudly than ever, for that fair
and glorious land beyond the broad Atlantic has been added to the treasures
of time — that unrivalled land, the birthplace of Washington and of freedom,
which seems, "Pallas-like, to have sprung from the head of Jove," with
aJl the knowledge of departed centuries, and the experience of long-buried
nations.
At the end of a soft and balmy day of spring, we first entered the Coli-
seum. Its immensity and desolation were overpowering. The lips abso-
lutely refused to frame into words the emotions inspired by this grandest of
ruins. So, to escape questions from our party concerning the impression
made upon my mind, I stole away from them, and climbing up a mass of
stone, I found a little nook, where I seated myself, and, free from interrup-
tion, gazed upon the wondrous extent of the majestic Coliseum. It is of
oval form, and when perfect, the walls were one hundred and fifty feet in
height. Now, the lofty rim around it is broken in all directions. The deep
blue sky seemed to rest like a roof above the arches, which rose up tier over
tier to the summit, where once floated an awning, as protection from the
mid-day sun. It is built of travertine rock, whose coarse grain and porous
texture aiford a safe lodgment for the grains of dust. These soon become
soil, whence spring myriads of flowers, and tufted bushes of dark green
foliage. ligature appeared to have seized the ruin from decay, and hidden
the ravages of the destroyer beneath a mantle of verdure, sprinkled with
glowing blossoms, belonging to a flora unknown elsewhere save in ancient
Rome. There were delicate vines clinging around enormous prostrate
columns, while long tendrils, like garlands, were waving in the air. Along
44 WOMENOFTHESOUTH.
a terrace wliicli encircled the arena, were still visible ranges of boxes,
intended for the emperors and nobles. This was covered as though with a
carpet, so various and brilliant-hued were the flowers growing upon it. Far
up along the edge of the broken battlements was a fringe of green and
shining ivy.
The Coliseum was commenced by Vespiasian, and finished by his son
Titus in the year 80, a few years after the destruction of Jerusalem.
Twelve thousand captive Jews were compelled to labor incessantly in its
construction, and when it was completed, for one hundred days gladiatorial
combats were held within it, and thousands of Christians were torn to
pieces by the wild tigers, lions, and leopards. During four hundred years
the Coliseum was devoted to these fearful games, where gladiators met, or
where savage beasts buried their claws in the quivering flesh of human
beings. Seas of blood have washed over the broad arena, and myriads of
martyrs to the faith of our holy Redeemer, have yielded up their souls to
God within those circling walls. Hence, with all these memories crowding
on the mind, I could readily picture the terrific scenes of those horrible days,
when
" The buzz of eager natious ran,
in murmured pity, or loud-roared applause,
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man.
And wherefore slaughtered ? wherefore, but because
Such were the bloody circus' genial laws,
And the imperial pleasure ?"
In the reign of Honorius these frightful combats were abolished. The
Coliseum remained perfect for many centuries, until it became a kind of
quarry of stone and marble, with which many great palaces were built up.
It is said that the nephew of Paul the Third asked permission to remove
stone for only twelve hours. This being granted to him by his uncle, he
employed four thousand men, who assailed the walls, and bore away suflS-
cient material to build the Farnese Palace^ one of the largest in Europe.
Pope Benedict, in I'ToO, caused a cross to be erected in the centre of the
arena, and consecrated it to the martyrs who had perished within it. There
are now rude altars, with paintings illustrating the progress of the Saviour
from the prison to the place of his crucifixion. Just after twilight a long
train of monks, with a linen mask entirely concealing their faces, went
chanting around the arena. • Great shadows falling from the walls above.
OCTAVIA WALTON LE YERT. 45
seemed now and then to ingulf them in dark caverns, as they passed
along.
Even more suggestive of picturesque and wild grandeur was the Coliseum
at night, when the bright stars were out, and the tender beams of the young
moon were just disappearing beyond the ivy-crowned rim of the lofty walls.
With that view ended our first visit ; but often again did I see it. If Mont
Blanc may be styled the "Monarch of Mountains," the Coliseum may be
justly hailed as the "Sovereign of Ruins."
THE HOME OF THE BROWNINGS.
I have spent the evening at the Gasa Guidi, with Mr. and Mrs. Browning,
whose poems we have read with such earnest pleasure at home. We have
mutual and dear friends in England, and soon after my arrival, we called
upon them, and have found in their acquaintance another link of enchantment
to bind Florence to memory forever.
During all the years of her early life, Elizabeth Barrett was an invalid,
shut in from society, and often even from the conversation of friends. While
a close prisoner in her chamber, she wrote beautiful and noble poems, which
have made the delight of many a household beyond the Atlantic, and the
joy of her compatriots. Robert Browning, himself a poet, a man of rare
talent and great personal attraction, read these outpourings of her pure and
gifted mind, and loved the unseen authoress. After many weary months of
entreaty, he was allowed to visit her, as she lay upon the sofa of her boudoir.
I need not tell you, the sight of her sweet and gentle face, and her beaming,
soul-lit smile, completed the conquest her genius had commenced. He mar-
ried her, and brought her immediately to Italy, where they have ever since
resided. Although her health is still delicate, and requires the unceasing
watchfulness of love and friendship, she becomes every year stronger in this
delicious clime, and is the happy mother of a lovely little boy.
Robert Browning is an admirable man, frank, cheerful, and charming.
He is said to be the. most captivating conversationist on the Continent ; (how-
ever, I think there are some in America quite equal to him). There is a
genial warmth, and a sparkling merriment, in his words, which made us
friends at once. Then Mrs. Browning I loved directly. Oh ! she is indeed
a precious gem ! With all her varied and profound learning, and high poetic
gift, she is as simple and unassuming in manner as a child. What a visit of
46 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
joy it was to me, in their love-sanctified and art-Tjeantified home. Their
union seems perfect in happiness, the mind as well as the heart having met
its own affinity. When we parted, after some hours of delightful conversa-
tion, wherein the bright and tender nature of Elizabeth Browning shone like
soft beams of light, I felt as though years of pleasant acquaintance had
passed between us. »
Dear Mrs. Kinney, our own sweet poetess, has been most cordially kind
and affectionate to us. In her apartments we have spent several evenings
of true enjoyment. She has presented me to a number of distinguished
people who live here, Florentines, English, and Americans ; among them an
exceedingly handsome couple, the Count and Countess Cottrell, and two
brothers of Tennyson the poet. "We met there, likewise. Hart, the sculptor,
who is modelling the statue of Henry Clay for the . ladies of Eichmond. He
tells me the work is nearly completed, and other persons say it will be a
most noble and majestic monument to America's greatest statesman.
JEJTNY LIND.
Words cannot shadow forth the resistless charm of her wonderful voice ;
music gushes from her throat in rills of song, until the whole theatre is full
of melody.
In the trio with the flutes, her voice soars far above their sweetest or
clearest tones. With merry glee, she seems to revel and sport amid the higher
notes, and i^ocks, with playful grace, all efforts of the instruments to follow
her wanderings, in her own realm of song.
"The Mountain Song" is a miracle of sound. In it she imitates the
herdsman's call to his flocks, and the echoes which the hills give back again.
The last long-sustained note is enchanting. It is low, soft, and wild. It
swells around you — now above, now below — until the air rings with harmony.
It does not resemble any sound of earth or of air I have ever listened to, save
the "mysterious music," which haunts the shores of Pascagoula Bay.
The "Birdling Song," is exquisite. The joyous warblings of the bird is as
perfectly heard as though you wandered amid the deep forest glades of Swe-
den. When she sings this melody her face is lighted up with a beautiful
smile, and the sweet Avords, "I am singing, I must be singing," fall like pre-
cious gems from her rosy lips.
Her Italian music is rendered with science and the artistic skill of a per-
OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT. 47
feet musician. "Wonder is excited at the remarkable power of her clarion-
like voice ; the tones are delightful, but they do not warm the heart. Like
the aurora borealis of northern climes, it is exquisite in its beauty, but it is
cold as moonlight upon the snow. Hence, in Italian music, I would not style
her the " Queen of Song," but in the melodies of her native land, in the wild
music of Germany, she is preeminent, and reaches heights unattainable by
any but herself. In the uniqueness — in the sparkling brightness of her own
music, there is a perfection which no other vocalist has ever approached. It
is irresistibly charming. A pure and gentle feeling possesses the heart as you
listen. The tones of her voice come upon the senses like the falling of the
raindrops — like the moonlight of summer — like the breeze from southern
seas. Her music never awakens passionate emotions in the soul, or induces
the "pulses' wild play." Its influence is soothing and refined.
At all the concerts her opening song is in Italian, and I am persuaded
no one has ever heard her first song without a sensation of disappoint-
ment, which, however, quickly changes into admiration when her own
songs come to the ear. She steals into the heart — she does not take it by
cov.p de main.
CAROLINE GILMAN".
Theke is, perhaps, no woman whose name has sustained
itself longer and more endearingly with the American public,
and is, at the same time, more closely interwoven with the
rural and fireside literature of the South, than that of Caroline
Gilman. And now, at the age of sixty-six, she stands before
the mind's eye, serene, genial, and perennial as her fame. We
have strong faith in chirography ; and the little note she has
sent to us, in a hand guiltless of a single flourish — round, clear,
firm, and genuine, would seem to be a true expression of her-
self.
Mrs. Gilman is best known as a prose writer, though she has
published a volume of poems which is marked by some of the
happiest characteristics of her style, and holds no unworthy
place in the scale of her achievements. To children, especially,
are her pure, simple, graceful, and vivacious poems a real com-
fort and blessing. But it is in the familiar and artistic sketches
of her " Recollections of a Southern Matron," and " A New
England Bride," that we meet the writer face to face upon
the fair and sunny fields of her own proper domain, and feel
most sensibly the unaffected and magnetic sympathies of the
woman.
Caroline Howard, the daughter of Samuel Howard, of Boston,
Mass., was born in that city October 8, 1794. She had just
reached the age of three years when her father died, and her
yiiother — a descendant of the Brecks, an honorable family, well
48
CAROLINE OILMAN. 49
known in Boston and Philadelpiiia — retired with her children
into the country. Though our author, in her piquant sketch of
her own life, claims for herself a somewhat early and extraordi-
nary power of mental retention, instancing the memory of her
baptism, at jive weeks, with all its graphic details — " a cold l^o-
vember morning " — " the north aisle " of the church — the minister
bending over her in his " bush-wig," and touching his finger to
her " befrilled little forehead " — she seems to have taken little
note of time or events in the succeeding ten years. Removing
with her mother, in the meanwhile, from one New England
village to another, they at last settled upon classic and sacred
ground, near the entrance of Mount Auburn, in Cambridge,
Mass. From thence, at the age of ten years, our writer followed
to their resting-place, in North Andover, the cherished remains
of her mother.
The religious element was early developed in Miss Howard,
and showed itself largely in her first publication, a poem
entitled " Jephthah's Rash Yow," which appeared in 1810.
This was soon followed by " Jairus' Daughter," brought out
in the " North American Review."
In 1819, she married the Rev. Samuel Gilman, and removed
to Charleston, S. C, the place of his pastoral charge. Dr.
Gilman was known to the world not only as an earnest and
faithful preacher of the Unitarian faith, but as the author of
" The Memoirs of a New England Yillage Choir."
' Not until 1832 did Mrs, Gilman establish a reputation as a
l)rose writer. She then commenced the publication of a
weekly juvenile journal, called the " Southern Rose-bud,"
which she continued for seven years. From this miscellany
her writings have been, at different times, collected and repub-
lished. " Recollections of a New England Bride," and " Of a
Southern Matron," ran rapidly through many editions, and, of
her numerous works, are undoubtedly the most familiarly
4
50 WOMEN OF T.HE SOUTH.
known to the public. "Poetry of Travelling," inade up of
graceful, humorous sketches of JSTorthern and Southern life,
appeared in 1838. " Yerses of a Lifetime," was brought out at
Boston in 1849, and followed by " Tales and Ballads," " Euth
Raymond, or Love's Progress," " Oracles from the Poets," and
" The Sibyl " — the last two being compilations from a wide
range of poetry, skillfully classified to do devoir as oracles.
" Letters from Eliza Wilkinson," during the invasion of Charles-
ton by the British, is highly interesting and valuable as a per-
sonal memorial of the Revolution.
Mrs. Oilman's autobiographical, sketch has been extensively
copied, especially into books of this class, but affording, as its
nawe, graceful, and spirited flow does, the best clue in our pos-
session to her true self and style, we cannot refrain from giving
place yet again to large portions of it, commencing with some
reminiscences of her old home.
Our residence [she says] was nearly opposite Governor Gerry's, and we
were frequent visitors there. One evening I saw a small book on the
recessed window-seat of their parlor. It was Gesner's "Death of Abel;" I,
opened it, spelt out its contents, and soon tears began to flow. Eager to
finish it, and ashamed of emotions so novel, I screened my little self so as to
allow the light to fall only on the book, and, while forgotten by the group, I,
also, forgetting the music and mirth that surrounded me, shed, at eight years,
the first preluding tears over fictitious sorrow.
It was formerly the custom for country people in Massachusetts to visit
Boston in throngs on election day, and see the governor sit in his chair on
the common. This pleasure was promised me, and a neighboring farmer was
good enough to oiFer to take me to my Uncle Phillips'. Therefore, soon
after sunrise, I was dressed in my best frock, and red shoes, and with a large
peony called a Uection posy^ in one hand, and a quarter of a dollar in the
other, I sprang with a merry heart into the chaise, my imagination teeming
with soldiers and sights, and sugar-plums, and a vague thought of something
like a huge giant sitting in a big chair, overtopping everybody.
I was an incessant talker while travelling, therefore the time seemed
short when I was landed, as I supposed, at my Uncle Phillips' door, and the
CAROLINE GILMAN. 51
farmer drove away. But what was my distress at finding myself among
strangers ! Entirely ignorant of my uncle's direction, I knew not what to
say. In vain a cluster of kind ladies tried to soothe and amuse me with
promises of playmates and toys ; a sense of utter loneliness and intrusion kept
me in tears. At sunset, the good farmer returned for me, and I burst into a
new agony of grief. I have never forgotten that long, long day with the
kind and hospitable, but wrong Phillipses. If this statement should chance
to be read and remembered by them, at this far interval, I beg them to
receive the thanks which the timid girl neglected to give to her stranger
friends.
I had seen scarcely any children's books except the Primer, and at the age
of ten no poetry adapted to my age ; therefore, without presumption, I .may
claim some originality at an attempt at an acrostic on an infant, by the
name of Howard, beginning :
" How sweet is the half-opened rose !
Oh, how sweet is the violet to view ! .
Who receives more pleasure from them,"
Here it Beems I broke down in the acrostic department, and went ont '
" Than the one who thinks them like you ?
Yes, yes, you're a sweet little rose,
That will bloom like one awhile;
And then you will be like one still,
For I hope you will die without guile."
The Davidsons, at the same age, would, I suppose, have smiled at this
poor rhyming, but in vindication of my ten-year-old-ship I must remark,
that they were surrounded by the educational light of the present era, while
I was in the dark age of 1805.
My education was exceedingly irregular, a perpetual passing from school
to school, from my earliest memory.- I drew a very little, and worked the
*' Babes in the "Wood " on white satin, with floss silk ; my teacher and my
grandmother being the only persons who recognized in the remarkable indi-
viduals that issued from my hands a likeness to those innocent sutFerers.
I taught myself the English guitar at the age of fifteen, from hearing a
schoolmate take lessons, and ambitiously made a tune, which I doubt if
posterity will care to hear. By depriving myself of some luxuries, T
52 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
purchased an instrument, ov«r which my whole soul was poured in joy and
sorrow for many years. A dear friend, who shared my desk at school, was
kind enough to work out all my sums for me (there were no hlackboards
then), while I wrote a novel in a series of letters, under the euphonious
name of " Eugenia Fitz Allen." The consequence is that, so far as arithmetic
is concerned, I have been subject to perpetual mortification ever since, and
shudder to. this day when any one asks how much is seven times nine !
I never could remember the multiplication table, and to heap coals of
fire on its head, set it to rhyme. I wrote my school themes in rhyme, and
instead of following "Beauty soon decays," and " Cherish no ill designs," in
B and 0, I surprised my teacher with Pope's couplet :
" Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll,
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul."
My teacher, who at that period was more ambitious for me than I was
for myself, initiated me into Latin, a great step for that period.
The desire to gratify a friend induced me to study Watts' Logic. I did
commit it to memory conscientiously, but on what an ungenial soil it fell!
I think to this day, that that science is the dryest of intellectual chips, and
for sorry quibblings, and self-evident propositions, syllogisms are only
equalled by legal instruments, for which, by the way, I have lately seen a
call for reform. Spirits of Locke, and Brown, and Whewell, forgive me !
About this period I walked four miles a week to Boston to join a private
class in French.
The religious feeling was always powerful within me. I remember in
girlhood, a passionate joy in lonely prayer, and a delicious elevation, when,
with upraised look, I trod my chamber floor, reciting or singing Watts'
Sacred Lyrics. At sixteen I joined the communion at the Episcopal Church
in Cambridge.
At the age of eighteen I made another sacrifice in dress to purchase a
Bible, with a margin sufficiently large to enable me to insert a commentary.
To this object I devoted several months of study, transferring to its pages my
deliberate convictions.
I am glad to class myself with the few who first established the Sabbath
School and Benevolent Society at Watertown, Massachusetts, and to say that
I have endeavored, under all circumstances, wherever my lot has fallen, to
carry out the work of social love.
CAROLINE OILMAN. 53
At the age of sixteen I wrote " Jephthah's Kash Vow." I was gratified
by the request of an introduction from Miss Hannah Adams, the erudite, the
simple-minded, and gentle-mannered author of the " History of Religions."
After her warm expressions of praise for my verses, I said to her :
"Oh, Miss Adams, how strange to hear a lady who knows so much
admire me !"
"My dear," replied she, with her little lisp, "my writings are merely
compilations, Jephthah is your own."
This incident is a specimen of her habitual humility.
To show the change from that period, I will remark, that when I learned
that my verses had been surreptitiously printed in a newspaper, I wept bit-
terly, and was as alarmed as if I had been detected in man's apparel.
The next effusion of mine was "Jairus' Daughter," which wasinserted,
by request, in the " North American Review," then a miscellany.
A few 3-ears later I passed four winters at Savannah, and still \'ividly
remember the love and sympathy of that genial community.
In 1819, I married Samuel Oilman, and came to Charleston, S. C, where
he was ordained pastor of the Unitarian Church.
In 1832, I commenced editing the "Rose-bud," a hebdomadal, the first
juvenile newspaper, if I mistake not, in the Union. Mrs. Child had led the
way in her " Monthly Miscellany," to my apprehension one of the most per-
fect works that have ever appeared for youth. The " Rose-bud " gradually
unfolded through seven columns, taking the title of the " Southern Rose,"
and being the vehicle of some rich literature and valuable criticisms.
From this periodical I have reprinted at various times, the following
volumes :
" Recollections of a New England Bride;" "Recollections of a Southern
Matron ;" " Ruth Raymond, or Love's Progress ;" " Poetry of Travelling in the
United States ;" " Tales and Ballads ;" " Verses of a Lifetime ;" " Letters of
Eliza Wilkinson, during the Invasion of Charleston;" also, several volumes
for youth, now collected in one, as " Mrs. Oilman's Oift Book." The
"Poetry of Travelling," " Tales and Ballads," and " Eliza Wilkinson," are out
of print. The "Oracles from the Poets," and "The Sibyl," which occu-
pied me two years, are of later date. To these may be added " Oracles for
Youth."
On the publication of the " Recollections of a New England Bride,"
I received thanks and congratulations from every quarter, and I attribute it*
popularity to the fact that it was the first attempt, in that particular mode.
54 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
to enter into the recesses of American homes and hearths, the first unveiling
of what I may call the altar of the Lares in our cuisine.
I feel proud to say that a chapter in that work was among the first
heralds of the temperance movement, a cause to which I shall cheerfuUj
give my later as well as earlier powers.
After the publication of the "Poetry of Travelling," I opened to a notice
in a review, and was greeted with, "This affectation will never do." It
has amused me since to notice how " this affectation " has spread, until we
have now the "Poetry of Teaching," and the "Poetry of Science," etc., etc.
My only pride is in my books for children. I have never thought myself
a poet, only a versifier ; but I know that I. have learned the way to youthful
hearts, and I think I have originated several styles of writing for them.
While dwelling on the above sketch, I have discovered the difficulty of
autobiography, in the impossibility of referring to one's faults. Perchance
were I to detail the personal mistakes and deficiencies of this long era, I
might lose the sympathy which may have followed me thus far.
I have purposely confined myself to my earlier recollections, believing
that my writings will be the best exponents of my views and experience. It
would be wrong, however, for me not to allude, in passing, to one subject
which has had a potent influence on my life : I refer to mesmerism or mag-
netic psychology. This seemingly mysterious agency gave me relief when
other human aid was hopeless.
My Heavenly Father has called me to varied trials of joy and sorrow. I
trust they have all drawn me nearer to him. I have resided in Charleston
thirty-one years, and shall probably make my final resting-place in the
beautiful cemetery adjoining my husband's church — the church of my faith
and my love.
This sketch was written in 1854. Since that time we
have to record the death of Dr. Gihnan, and, very recentlj,
the pubhcation of a pure, womanly memorial of him by Mrs.
Gilman. A southern paper pays the following tribute to the
work :
Records of Inscriptions in the Cemetery and Building of the Unitarian, formerly denominated the
Independent Church, Archdale street, Charleston, S. C. From 1T77 to 1860.
The beautiful monument that perpetuates the remembrance of the faithful
services and pure life of the tender and truthful Gilman, with its touching
CAROLINE GILM AN. 55
adornment of lasting love, suggested this collection of epitaphs. The flowers
laid by the hand of affection upon that shrine, caused the generous heart of
Mrs. Gilman to resolve to do for others what had been done for one distin-
guished and cherished name. Gratified and struck with the fresh delight
with which the almost worn-out inscriptions on the old gravestones were
read, it occurred to her that a printed collection of these tributes on the
marble would be acceptable to the congregation and circle, of friends. We
have before us the execution of this happy thought. The pious work could
not have fallen into more fitting hands. The volume is a storehouse of
sadly sweet memories, which the names upon the stones in that beautifii]
God's Acre will revive in the breasts of many of our readers.
May the days whicli remain to this estimable woman — this
*' past-master in the order of American female authors " — like
the latter days of our noble Irving, round in ripe golden sunset
to their rest.
THE LOST MAIL.
My cousin, Lewis "Walpole, from the earliest childhood, was remarkable
for finding things. His companions thought he enjoyed what is commonly
called good luck, but a closer philosophy might say he was particularly
observing. He once found two letters in a morning walk, the reward for
which filled his pocket with spending money for a year ; and as we were
rambling together one day, he brought up from the mud on his ratan a gold
ring. It was a plain ring with two initials ; and though no inmiediate re-
ward followed, it introduced him to a friendship which was like golden
apples for the rest of his days. Once I stepped on a bit of dirty paper;
Lewis followed me, picked it up, and laid it in his little snug pocket-book.
Six weeks after, an advertisement appeared, offering three hundred dollars
reward for that very bit of paper, which was the half of a note worth aa
many thousands.
It seemed to me that pins sprang from the earth for Lewis, for he was
never without a row of them in his waistcoat. If an old lady was in want
of one, Lewis was always ready, and then his head was patted, and he was
treated to tit-bits. If a pretty girl's shawl was to be fastened, behold Lewis'
pin came forth, and then snch n bcnutifnl fivily beaiiK'd npon him ! If a
child was in danger of losing her bonnet, Lewis's offered pin was seized, and
56 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH,
he was caressed with lips and eyes, for her preservation from a maternal
chiding.
Cousin Lewis, some time since, removed to the far West, and I, his senior
by a dozen years (though he was a stricken bachelor), went with him to
darn his stockings and keep his hearth clean. We called our log house
Sparrownest, and in one way and another made it as cozy as heart could
wish. What could poor Cousin Lewis find now, in his wide fields and vast
forests ? Not pins, certainly ; but one day, twenty miles from home, he did
find in the wild woods a strange thing, a pretty Irish girl about sixteen years
old, all alone, wringing her hands and sobbing as if her heart would break.
Cousin Lewis dismounted (he was a noble horseman), and offered her assist-
ance. The poor child only wept the more, crying out :
" And isn't it alone in the wide world that I am."
It was an awkward business, but Cousin Lewis knew better than anybody
how to do a kindness, so he wiped her eyes, soothed her, and bade her be of
good cheer ; then took her up on his saddle and brought her home.
What big bundle has Cousin Lewis brought home ? thought I, as he rode
■up to the door in the twilight — and great was my astonishment to see a red-
cheeked girl slip down from the saddle, with a shamefaced look. I bestirred
myself about supper, for the child was cold and hungry. When her appetite
was appeased (she ate a whole chicken, poor thing !) she began to cry.
" What can I do for you, my child ?" said I.
" And isn't it of my father I'm thinking !" said she, sobbing and wringing
her hands. " There were twenty of us, big and little, in the wagons, and him
in the front one. It was with a clever old lady I was, in the afther one, we
to take the charge of one another, ye mind. And when the 'orses was
stopped for walthering, I minded to go and gather some flowers I had never
seen in my own counthry. So I sated myself down to pull some flowers, and
^ bit of weed thereabout looked like a shamrock, and I fell a thinkin' ; a kind
of thdream came upon me, and I was at play with Kathleen and the girls,
and thin we were for throwing peat at Dermot, and Dermot made as if to
kiss me, the impudent , and I slapped him on the face, and thin I knew
nothin' more until I started up and found myself alone. The wagons were
gone, the owls were hootin', and the night comin' on. Then I shouted, and
cried, and raved, and ran till my feet failed me, and my heart was jist like
to break in two, when the masther (here she made a low courtesy to Cousin
Lewis) came along like the light, on a dark night, and took compassion on
the poor girl ; and she will love him all her days for his goodness, she
will."
CAROLINE GILMAN. 67
With that, Cousin Lewis took out his pocket-handkerchief, and I punched
the fire.
So Dora hecame one of us, and she sang about Sparrownest like a young
bird, with a natural sigh now and then for her father.
Did Cousin Lewis find anything else in the forest? Listen. As he was
riding on horseback, in his deliberate way, on the far outskirts of his fields,
he saw something white scattered among the green herbage. He spurred
his horse toward the spot. It was strewed with letters, which were dashed
with mud and rain. Cousin Lewis alighted, and quietly deposited them all
in his saddle-bags.
Dora and I had made a blazing fire, for the night was chilly, and while I
was knitting, she trod about with a liglit step, laying the cloth for supper,
and singing an Irish air about " Dermot, my dear." When Cousin Lewis
came in, she sprang toward him with such joy, and hung his hat on a peg,
and put his heavy saddle-bags in one corner, and brought him water to bathe
his hands, and helped to draw off his great boots. He looked very fondly on
her. You would not have thought he was so much older than she, for his
hair was curling and black as the raven's ; mine has been grey many years.
At supper, Cousin Lewis told us about the letters. I confess, old as I am,
I could scarcely keep my hands from the saddle-bags, and I thought Dora
would have torn them open.
" We shall have a rainy day to-morrow," said Cousin Lewis in his quiet
way, " and will want amusement ; besides, our Yankee clock points to bed-
time."
"Masther, dear," said Dora, imploringly, "the lethers will not slape a
wink for wanting to be read."
" We must keep them locked up, my love, as we do restless children,"
said Cousin Lewis, and I think I saw him kiss the hand that struggled to take
the key of the saddle-bags away from him. No wonder he felt young, for he
was very straight and graceful.
The next morning, when we assembled at breakfast, the rain descended
la that determined style which announces a regular outpouring for the day.
Dora and I glanced at the saddle-bags ; Cousin Lewis smiled.
'' Have you settled it with your conscience," said he, " whether those
letters should be read ? There has evidently been a mail robbery."
" You wouldn't in rason be after sendin' the letthers away, poor things,"
said Dora, " when they were left in the forests. And it wasn't that ye did
to me, any how !"
Cousin Lewis looked down, and sighed, and smiled. I could not tell
68 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
whether he was thinking of the letters or Dora, but I noticed, when he
smiled, how white and even his teeth were.
After some discussion, we decided that no seal was to he broken where
the superscription was legible, but that it was right and proper that we
should constitute ourselves a committee to decide which of them were in a
state to return to the post-office. Cousin Lewis was appointed reader.
While he gave us the contents of the following, Dora amused herself by
treading on Carlo's paw, who looked up in her face and whimpered. The
date was erased
" Deae Judge : You will be surprised to learn that ***** has taken
the field against us. What will European cabinets say when such addle-
headed fellows form a part of our government ? B , is up and doing.
You must be on the alert, and circumvent these movements if possible. The
Secretaryship may yet be secured by a general canvassing. T. and J. are fit
tools. Take care of S., and give a sop to the old Cerberus on the Island.
Keep the date in mind, as "
. The rest of the writing was obliterated. The next letter made Dora stop
playing with Carlo's paw.
" Philadelphia, etc.
" Deae Kussell : I received the books safely and thank you. After look-
ing them over, I had an odd dream, and was awoke with my own excessive
laughter. It is utterly preposterous that a staid lawyer, half a century old,
should be dreaming such dreams.
" I dreamed that I was blowing soap bubbles out of a clay pipe, a thing I
have not done since you and I were boys at Fishkill. One after another
they floated off, poetically enough ; now rising gracefully in the sunbeams,
and now exploding softly on the turf at my feet. At length one, the king of
the rest, grew and grew at the end of my pipe, until it became as large as a
wash basin. It fell and lay roiling about, offering beautiful prismatic hues
to the eye, when presently a little square-nosed pig came grunting toward it.
Twice he smelt it and tried to turn it, but retreated as it rolled toward him.
Again he seemed to gather up his courage, and thrusting his square snout
against it, it exploded with a noise like a pistol. Little squarenose ran as if
for life and death, and I awoke in a positive perspiration with excess of
laughter.
"interpretation of
" your
"James Col—."
CAROLINE GILMAN. 59
Dora shouted with glee at this droll description, and her interest was
kept awake by the following, written evidently by a relation of a certain
popular character :
"Mrs Sippi
" West End of A merry K.
" Dear Yellek : Wot with my see sickness and warious causes, its bin
utterly onpossible for me to rite to you, tho' it wamt for want of thinkin' on
you, as the thief said to the constable. Wos you ever see sick, cousin Yeller?
If you wos, you would say that you felt in the sitivation of a barrel of licker,
that's rolled over and over agin its vill. A most mortifyin' thing happened
a board the wessel. You know, my lovin' cozen, the jar of bake beans you
put aboard for my private eatin'. Wot should the stewhard do, but set it
atop of three basins in my stateroom, and won day wen the ladies wos eatin'
lunch, there come an awful lurch of the see, the wich burstin' open my door,
driv the whole concern into the cabin. The beans was mouldy beyond
account, and smelt werry wilely, as the pig said wen he vent to his neigh-
bor's pen. The beans was awfully griddle about the floor under the ladies'
feet, who scrambled up into the cheers. I put my head out of my birth to
explain, and was taken with an awful qualm in the midst of a pology.
" Give my love to miss , and tell her the Men-j'cans have been quite
shy of my letter of introducshun from her. I'm jealous she didn't move in
sich respectable society as me, or else she made a mistake, as the dissector
said wen he got hold of a live body. I ain't seen a drunken lady, nor a
young woman married to her grandfather, nor a hypocritiole parson since I
left the wessel.
" I vill write agin as ever I get to Mis Soreeye.
" Your loven cozen
"TmOTHT." '
..t may well be imagined that Sparrownest rang with our mirth, for little
dtters move one in the country. Dora laughed until she cried, but her
mood was soon changed when Cousin Lewis, in his pathetic tones, read the
next letter.
"Father : I take my pen in desperation, not in hope — and yet perhaps,
when you know that the body of my child lies beside me without my having
the means to buy him a shroud, you may relent. Poor Edward is stretched
on his hard mattress beside tlie boy, and his hollow cough rings fearfully
through the empty room. Oii, iuther, if ho had but tliat old sofa you
60 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
banished to the garret on the night of my birth-day ball ! You will thick
me crazy to say so, but you are a murderer, father. My boy died for
want of nourishment, and you are murdering Edward- too, the best, the
noblest . Oh, Heaven, to think of the soft beds in your vacant rooms,
and the gilt-edged cups from which you drink your odorous tea, with that
white sugar sparkling like diamonds ! I have just given poor Edward his
nauseous draught in a tin vessel. I have not had time to cleanse it since
my baby was ill.
" My baby — how tranquilly he rests ! "Would that Edward and I might
lie down beside him !
"Father, will God treat his erring children as you do? 'Like as a
father pitieth his children ' Oh, Father in Heaven, art thou like
mine ?"
" A change has come upon Edward, father; he is dying dead."
Dora laid her head upon the table in tears, but she soon wiped her
eyes, and listened with feminine interest to another letter.
" New York.
"Deae Isabel: You must not fail to be here on the 21st of next month
as my first bridesmaid. I can take no excuse. My dress is perfect ; papa
imported it for me. There is and shall be no copy in the city. The pearls
too are exquisitely unique. You can form some judgment of what will be
necessary for your own dress by mine. Of course you must be less ele-
gant than the bride.
" Frock with lace trimmings, etc $150
"Veil 60
" Pocket handkerchief (the divine thing!) . ... 20
" Embroidered gloves 3
" Shoes 2 8
.' " Stockings 5
*' Embroidered scarf 10
" Set of pearls 200
" Bouquet of natural flowers 6
" Come, dearest Isabel, and witness my dress and my felicity !
" Your own
"Elean'oe.
" P. S. — You know you must appear with me on Sunday. Mamma has
bought me a heaven of a bonnet with feathers."
CAROLINE GILMAN. 61
Dora rolled up her eyes. "And isn't it feathers that's to make that
bird?" said she. Upon which she began to speculate on her own wants if
she should be married, and decided that ten dollars would be an ample dower
for her.
And now the impatient girl's fingers were again thrust into the saddle-
bags, but as she drew out several letters, I observed that the superscription
on one arrested her attention. She became very pale, broke the seal impetu-
ously, and glanced at the signature. A joyous flush came over her cheeks,
she danced about, waving the letter in the air, caught me round the neck
and kissed me, and threw herself into Cousin Lewis' arms in a passion of
tears. "When she could speak, she sobbed out :
" And isn't it father's own handwriting, darlings? and isn't he at Louis-
ville, weeping for his own Dora ? And will not the masther " (here she
disengaged herself from Cousin Lewis, and stood before him with her accus-
tomed courtesy) " take poor Dora to the father that's her own ?"
Cousin Lewis was startled.
" I had hoped," said he, gravely, " that is, Cousin Rachel and I had hoped,
that Sparrownest would have been your home for life, Dora."
Dora looked down, embarrassed, for my Cousin Lewis' eyes were fixed
upon her, and they were very black and sparkling, though he was a stricken
bachelor.
'I withdrew toward the window, but did not altogether look away. I
saw Cousin Lewis take Dora's hand ; I saw Dora blush all up to the eye-
brows ; I heard Cousin Lewis speak in a pleading tone. One would not have
thought him an old bachelor by his voice. I saw little Dora tremble, her
heart seemed starting from her bosom, and she began to cry,
"I will not distress you," said Cousin Lewis, tenderly. "Tell me all
your feelings, as you are wont to do. Can you love me, and be my
wedded wife ?"
Dora looked up through her tears. Her eyes shone sweetly.
" I will love the masther to the day of my death and after," said she,
"but thin I will love Derraot better, and it is a sin is that."
Cousin I^wis dropped her hand abruptly, and left the room. He stayed
away an hour, and then calmly prepared for Dora's journey. And no-w
I never hear him speak her name.
62 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
MY KNITTING-WORK.
Youth's buds have oped and fallen from my life's expanding tree,
And soberer fruits have ripened on its hardened stalks for me ;
No longer with a buoyant step I tread my pilgrim way,
And earth's horizon closer bends from hastening day to day.
No more with curious questioning I seek the fervid crowd,
Nor to ambition's glittering shrine I feel my spirit bowed;
But, as bewitching flatteries from worldly ones depart,
Love's circle narrows deeply about my quiet heart.
Home joys come thronging round me, bright, blessed, gentle, kind;
The social meal, the fireside book, unfettered mind with mind ;
The unsought song that asks no praise, but spirit-stirred and free,
Wakes up within the thoughtful soul remembered melody.
Nor shall my humble hnitting-worh pass unregarded here,
The faithful friend who oft has chased a furrow or a tear.
Who comes with still unwearied round to cheer my failing eye,
And bid the curse of ennui from its polished weapons fly.
Companionable Tcnitting-worh ! when gayer friends depart,
Thou hold'st thy busy station ever very near my heart ;
And when no social living tones to sympathy appeal,
I hear a gentle accent from thy softly clashing steel.
My Jcnitting-worTc ! my Tcnitting-worh ! a confidant art thou,
As smooth and shining on my lap thou liest beside me now ;
Thou know'st some stories of my thoughts the many may not know,
As round and round the accustomed path my careful fingers go.
Sweety silent^ quiet Tcnitting-worlc ! thou interruptest not
My reveries and pleasant thoughts, forgetting and forgot 1
I take thee up, and lay thee down, and use thee as I may,
And not a contradicting word thy burnished lips will say.
CAROLINE GILMAN. 63
My moralizing Tcnitting-worTc ! thy threads most aptly show
How evenly around life's span our busy threads should go ;
And if a stitch perchance should drop, as life's frail stitches will^
How, if we patient take it up, the work may prosper stilL
THE PLANTATION".
Farewell, awhile the city's hum
"Where busy footsteps fall,
And welcome to my weary eye
The planter's friendly hall.
Here let me rise at early dawn.
And list the mockbird's lay,
That, warbling near our lowland home.
Sits on the waving spray.
Then tread the shady avenue.
Beneath the cedar's gloom,
Or gum-tree, with its flickered shade,
Or chinquapin's perfume.
Tne myrtle-tree, the orange wild,
The cypress' flexile bough,
The holly with its polished leaves,
Are all before me now.
There towering with imperial pride,
The rich magnolia stands.
And here, in softer loveliness.
The white-bloomed bay expands.
The long grey moss hangs gracefully,
Idly I twine its wreaths,
Or stop to catch the fragrant air
The frequent blossom breathes.
64 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Life wakes around — the red bird darta
Like flame from tree to tree ;
The whip-poor-will complains alone,
The robin whistles free.
The frightened hare scuds by my path,
And seeks the thicket nigh ;
The squirrel climbs the hickory bough,
Thence peeps with careful eye.
The humming-bird, with busy wing,
In rainbow beauty moves,
Above the trumpet-blossom floats,
And sips the tube he loves.
Triumphant to yon withered pine.
The soaring eagle flies,
There builds her eyry 'mid the clouds.
And man and heaven defies.
The hunter's bugle echoes near,
And see — his weary train.
With mingled howling scent the woods.
Or scour the open plain.
Yon skiff is darting from the cove,
And list the negro's song.
The theme, his owner and his boat —
While glide the crew along.
And when the leading voice is lost,
Eeceding from the shore.
His brother boatmen swell the strain
In chorus with the oar.
CAROLINE OILMAN. ^5
TO THE URSULINES.
Oh pure and gentle ones, within your ark
Securely rest !
Blue he the sky above — your quiet bark —
By soft winds blest !
Still toil in duty and commune with heaven,
"World- weaned and free ;
God to his humblest creatures room has given,
And space to be.
Space for the eagle in the vaulted sky
To plume his wing —
Space for tlie ring-dove by her young to lie,
And softly sing.
Space for the sun-flower, bright with yellow glcw
To court the sky —
Space for the violet, where the wild woods grow
To live and die.
Space for the ocean in its giant might,
To swell and rave —
Space for the river, tinged with rosy light,
Where green banks wave.
Space for the sun to tread his path in might,
And golden pride —
Space for the glow-worm, calling, by her light,
Love to her side.
Then pure and gentle ones, within your ark
Securely rest!
Blue be the skies above, and your still bark
By kind winds blest.
5
&6 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
MY PIAZZA.
My piazza ! my piazza ! some boast their lordly halls,
Where softened gleam of curtained light on golden treasure falls,
Where pictures in ancestral rank look stately side by side,
And forms of beauty and of grace move on in living pride !
I envy not the gorgeousness that decks the crowded room,
Where vases with exotic flowers throw out their sick perfume,
With carpets where the slippered foot sinks soft in downy swell,
And mirrored walls reflect the cheek where dimpled beauties dwell.
My fresh and cool piazza ! I seek the healthy breeze
That circles round thy shading vines and softly-waving trees,
With step on step monotonous, I tread thy level floor,
And muse upon the sacred past, or calmly look before.
My bright and gay piazza ! I love thee in "the hour,
When morning decks with dewy gems the wavy blade and flower,
When the bird alights and sings his song upon the neighboring tree.
As if his notes were only made to cheer himself and me.
My cool and fresh piazza ! I love thee when the sun
His long and fervid circuit o'er the burning earth has mn ;
i joy to watch his parting light loom upward to the eye,
And view the pencil-touch shade off, and then in softness die.
My sociable piazza ! I prize thy quiet talk,
When arm in arm with one I love, I tread the accustomed walk ;
•Or loll within our rocking-chairs, not over nice or wise,
And yield the careless confidence, where heart to heart replies.
My piazza, my piazza! my spirit oft rejoices,
When from thy distant nooks I hear the sound of youthful voices ;
The careless jest, the bursting laugh, the carol wildly gay.
Or cheerful step with exercise that crowns the studious day.
CAROLINE GILMAN. g7
My beautiful piazza ! thou hast thy nightly boast,
"When brightly in the darkened sky appear the heavenly host ;
Arcturus glows more brilliantly than monarchs' blazing gem,
And fair Corona sits enshrined, like angels' diadem.
My loved and lone piazza ! the dear ones have departed,
And .each their nightly pillow seek, the young and happy-hearted ;
I linger still, a solemn hush is brooding o'er the skies,
A solemn hush upon the earth in tender silence lies.
I feel as if a spirit- wing came near and brushed my heart,
And bade, before I yield to sleep, earth's heavy cares depart ;
Father, in all simplicity, I breathe the prayer I love,
O watch around my slumbering form, or take my soul above I
CAROLINE HOWARD.
Mrs. Cakoline Howaed Glovee, the daughter of Mrs. Gil-
man, was born and educated in Charleston, S. C. Married at
the age of seventeen, she was left a widow at twenty-three, and
has since resided with her three orphan children at the home of
her parents.
Gracefully veiling herself with the maiden name of her
mother, she contributed many choice poems and tales to the
leading magazines of the South, and has been, to children
especially, a sweet interpreter of poetry and romance.
Mrs. Glover is best known, however, as the author of
" Yernon Grove, or Hearts as they Are," a novel of extensive
circulation, published in 1858 by Messrs. Eudd & Carleton.
This work appeared first as a serial in the columns of the
"Southern Literary Messenger," and was .brought out in, book
form without the name of the author ; but its skillful construc-
tion, the grace of its style, and its artistic and analytic power,
soon attracted attention, and called out the most favorable
notices from the press.
We clip the following from the " Atlantic Monthly " of
January, 1859, as an assurance that, though tried by the highest
critical standard of 'New England, " Yernon Grove " has not
been found wanting.
This volume makes a pleasant addition to the light reading of the day.
It is the more welcome as coming from a new field ; for we believe that the
veil of sQcrecy with regard to its authorship has been so far blown aside,
68
CAROLINE HOWARD. 69
that we shall be permitted to say that, although it is written by a lady of
New England birth, it may be most properly claimed as a part of the litera-
ture of South Carolina. It is a regular novel, although a short one. It is an
interesting story, of marked, but not improbable incidents, involving a very
few well-distinguished characters, who fall into situations to display which
requires nice analysis of the mind and heart — developed in graceful and
flowing narrative, enlivened by natural and spirited conversation.
Tlie atmosphere of the book is one of refined taste and liigh culture. The
people in it, with scarce an exception, are people who mean to be good, and
who are handsome, polite, accomplished and rich, or, at least, surrounded by
the conveniences and even luxuries of life. It is a story, too, for the most
part, of cultivated enjoyment. There are sufferings and sorrows depicted in
it, it is true; without them it would be no representation of real life, which
it does not fail to be. Some tears will undoubtedly be shed over it, but tlie
sufferings and sorrows are such that we feel they are, after all, leading to
happiness ; and we are not made to dwell upon pictures of unnecessary
misery or unavailing misfortune. Let it not be f5upposed, however, that we
are speaking of a namby-pamby tale of the luxuries and successes of what is
called "high life," for this book has nothing of that character. We meai(
only to point out, as far as we may without entering upon the story itself,
that it teUs of pleasant people, in pleasant circumstances, among whom it is
a pleasure to the reader for a time to be. Many a novel " ends well " that
keeps us in a shudder or " worry " from the beginning to the end. Here we
see the enjoyment as we go along. Indeed, a leading characteristic of
" Vernon Grove " is the extremely good taste with which it is conceived and
written ; and so we no more meet with offensive descriptions of vulgar show
and luxury than we do with those of squalor or moral turpitude.
It is a book marked by a high tone of moral and religious as well as
artistic and aesthetic culture. Without being made the vehicle of any set
theories in philosophy or art, without (so far as we know) "inculcating" any
special moral axiom, it embodies much good teaching and suggestions witli
regard to music and painting, and many worthy lessons for the mind and
heart. This is done as it should be, by the apparently natural development
of the story itself. For, as we have said, the book is really a novel, and wi'.l
be read as a novel should be, for the story — and not, in the first instance and
with deliberation, with the critical desire to find out what lessons it teaches,
or what sentiments it inspires.
The narrative covers a space of several years, but it is so told that we
70 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH."
are furnished with details rather than generalities ; and particular scenes,
events, and conversations are set forth vividly and minutelj'. The descrip-
tions of natural scenery, and of -works of art, many of which come naturally
into the story, show a cultivated and ohservant eye, and a command of
judicious language. The characters are well developed, and with an imim-
portant exception, there is nothing introduced into the book that is not
necessary to the completion of the story. " Vernon Grove " will commend
itself to all readers who like works of fiction that are lively and healthy too ;
and will give its author high rank among the lady novelists of our day and
country.
t
ADYENTUEE IN THE GAVE.
When Sybil turned from her examination of the crystals she found that
the party had gone, but feeling no difficulty about following them, turned
into the nearest chamber which she observed, supposing it to be the only
one besides that by which she had entered, and pursued its windiug course
for some distance. At length, being a little anxious about not having'over-
taken them, she called several times but with no response, until a thought of
terror came to her, blanching her face and causing her limbs to tremble, — •
the thought of heing lost — and she quickened her pace, not knowing that
each step led her further from her friends.
At last the truth burst upon her that she was indeed alone and for-
saken, in that terrible place, so fall of unseen perils. The moment was
a fearful one in which she realized her situation ; she shouted in agony
for help, she called upon Vernon until her voice grew hoarse and only
whispered vainly his name ; her eyes peered into the darkness until they
were blood-shot with the straining ; a cold chill crept over her ; her voice
grew fainter in its hoarse whispers and perfectly unmanageable ; her limbs
Avere faint. Pausing awhile to reflect upon her situation, a vision of the
poor lost guide, of whom she had heard, came to her memory, and she
determined that she would remain stationary, hoping that some one would
compassionately follow her to the apartment where she Avas ; it was better
to do that, she thought, than to rush on into some unseen peril. Still the
remembrance of the lost guide would not depart from her ; perhaps even
now she might be treading upon his bones, and v/ith that sickening thought
she raised her lantern to see if the place were at all familiar to her, and
to assure herself that at least no unsightly skeleton kept her company ; but
CAROLINE HOWARD. 71
moving one step further on, her foot struck upon some unseen obstacle,
throwing her down upon the ground, while her lantern was rudely forced
from her hand by the shock ; the light flickered more brightly for a moment,
and then was entirely extinguished, leaving her upon the cold slimy ground
in utter darkness. Groping about, she raised herself from her prostrate
attitude, and leaning against a broken stalagmite formation, gave herself y~
to retrospection and prayer.
As in the case of a person who is about to be drowned, a panorama of
his whole life is presented in an instant of time, so did Sybil Gray conjure
up all the past scenes of her life, and all whom in her short career she had
ever known. First she thought of her grandmother, who had been alike
father and mother to her, lying at home lonely and ill, with no tender hands
of grandchild or relation to arrange her pillows or smooth down her scant
grey locks ; then of Isabel, so kind and yet so changeable, sometimes treating
her as a companion, and then as a child or plaything ; of Vernon and his
helpless blindness, of his devotion to her through the long years of the past
— what could he, what would he do without her ? Then Florence's superb
eyes flashed upon her in the darkness, and she thought of her ; would s7ie
guide and guard him when they had relinquished all hope of finding her, and
would he call her his ray of light in the darkness, and would they become
reconciled and love each other as they once did ? Then the perfect happi-
ness of the young bride and bridegroom came to her mind, and she mur-
mured to herself how sweet it must be to love and to be loved, and to have
one in the wide world who would be glad to hear every thought as it came
unstudied from the mind, and to sit with clasped hands, as they did, feeling
Bure that they were dear to each other. Then at length her vivid imagina-
tion wandered to Europe, that world of wonders, where Albert Linwood
painted those beautiful angel-like heads. She wondered what he would say
when he heard that little Sybil Grey's bones were moldering in the silence
of that fearful cave.
The humblest person, the minutest thing in her eventful life, were all
remembered, until at last the memory turned upon herself, and her soul
melted in pity for that poor, beating, fluttering heart of hers, and tears
chased each other silently down her cheeks, while her hands clasped hei
throat, as if to repress the choking sensation which seemed to deprive her of
breath.
" They will search for me and will not find me," she sobbed; "I shall
grow faint, and hungry, and tired here, and, like others, shall wander abouf
t2 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
and never be heard of more ; some treaclierous stream will ingulf me, or I
shall starve, day by day, imtil I die a horrible death."
Then pity, self-pity, turned to madness, and she clasped her delicate
hands together wildly, and beat her ,head against the senseless rock ; then
extending her hands, as if to ward off some demon, which in her madness
she had conjured up, thinking that with hungry eyes it approached her, she
uttered a despairing shriek, and struck them against a hard substance near,
when a roll, like the heavy tone of a deep bass drum, a sort of knell to
departing hope, sounded, and sent new terror into her soul. She did not
know then that there was a room within the cave called the Drum Room,
which was so named from a thin stalactite partition extending from the ceil-
ing to the floor, and which emits, by even a gentle tap, a tone like distant
thunder. Had she known this, she might have kept her consciousness, and
even through her madness have had returning gleams of reason ; but the
poor girl only read in its sepulchral, unearthly tone, a confirmation of her
terrible fate, a sort of " Amen " to the shriek with which she filled the
cavern, and she rose to fly, anywhere, anywhere, on, on, even if it proved to
her certain death, which would be preferable to that cruel, prolonged, suffer-
ing life. But she was not equal to the effort ; her strength suddenly forsook
her, and she fell with a pitiful moan upon the ground, insensible, with
scarcely a sign of life about her save in the faint fluttering of her heart.
At peace at last, because unconscious ! Unconscious of the darkness,
the horror, the damp cold rock which pillowed her head; oblivious to
memory, to cheating hope, to life itself. It was a peace like that one some-
times hopes to find in the silent grave when weary of the jar, the tears, the
trials, the sorrows of existence. The storm had done its worst; sail, and
mast, and pennon, had been torn away from the graceful bark in the struggle
with the elements, till at last it had sunk fathoms deep, out of reach of
storm or wind, resting peacefully at length amid the coral shores.
Poor driven bark, poor crazed, helpless, unconscious Sybil ! And it was
thus that the kind guide found her, but no effort of his could rouse her from
her death-like stupor. He was a powerful man, used to fatigue and exer-
tion of every kind, and though his outward bearing was rough, he had the
heart of a woman, and he gazed upon the poor child somewhat as a mother
would look upon a helpless infant, blessing her sweet white face, and feeling
a joy, in rescuing her, that he had not known in his monotonous life for
years. Then he stooped, and lifting her in his arms, carried her tenderly-
back to her friends, talking to her all the while in comforting words as though
CAROLINE HOWARD. 73
she heard and understood him, bidding her to be patient, for she would soon
be with them again, asking her if her drooping form lay easily upon his
strong muscular arm, and changing her position several times for fear that
she might be wearied.
It was weU that Vernon's eyes were closed to the touching sight as they
entered ; it would have been too sad a spectacle for one who loved her so
tenderly. Long before they entered, the word "Found!" uttered by the
guide in a voice Avhich could be heard at some distance, sent a thrill to his
heart that he never forgot, and had it not been for the persuasions of the
rest of the party, he would have rushed forward to meet her, but they
reminded him of the guide's express injunctions and the danger of intricate
passages, and he consented at last to wait, though each succeeding moment
seemed to swell to an hour's duration.
At length they entered, her slight form borne on the stalwart arm of the
guide, while with his free hand he held his lantern aloft so that the light
struck immediately upon her pallid face. Her position was so helpless that
it was hard to distinguish it from death, for her head was inclined backward,
and her long fair hair had escaped from its fastening and was trailing on the
ground, while her arms fell in that drooping position which the limbs of the
lifeless always have before they become stiffened with cold. It was to the
bystanders indeed death, though without its ungraceful rigidity.
"Is she dead!" asked Isabel inadvertently, as they entered, and the
group gathered round the guide, anxious to know every particular from
his lips.
" Oh, my God, not dead!" was all that Vernon could say, "she cannot,
she must not die;" while he pressed his hands tightly over his blinded
eyes, as if to invoke sight therefrom, that he might assure himself of her
real condition.
" Oh no, not dead ; at least not just yet," said the guide compassionately,
and yet fearing to raise Vernon's hopes too much, " but she is in a swoon so
deep that we cannot hope for her recovery (if she ever wakes) for some
hours. In the meantime, we must hurry onward, and as you, Mr. Vernon,
require no lantern and have both arms free, strong arms upon which to
cradle the poor child, you must carry her as carefully as you can, while John
will guide you ; but remember it is a long way and a weary one, and if you
find that your burden becomes too heavy for you, I will take her awile again
until you get rested."
She was transferred to Vernon's arms in silence, as though they were
■< 4 \v' O M E N 0 F T H E 6 O U T 11 .
watching a corpse. All looked upon that beautiful still face witli sympa-
thetic pity, and many of the eyes there were filled with tears ; some over-
flowed, but Florence's were tearless, and a fire flashed from them as she saw
that gentle head pillowed on Yemon's breast, and the procession, so fall of
enjoyment in the morning, passed in solemn silence along, while all unheeded
were the varied forms of beauty that lined their path.
And what were Vernon's emotions as his arms enfolded that beloved
form ? Grow weary of Tier f Ask assistance from any one, though the way
were twice, aye, thrice as long ? Ah, no ; it was too sv/eet a burden that he
bore. She seemed but a feather in his arms, as he held her there, heart to heart,
with her unbound hair waving at times upon his very lips ; and as thus ho
walked from the darkness into the light of day without, a vision seemed to come
to him as he held her there, false perchance, but still blessed because it
included her. The cave appeared to him as earth, and its devious perplexed
ways, and the sunlight without, the opening heaven — then a wild blissful
thought entered his heart, cheating him with its brilliant coloring, that even
thus one day might he hope to enter heaven.
Often in tenderest accents he whispered her name, but the still lips gave
no answer ; then imagining that her swoon was truly death, he placed his
hand upon her heart, reassured by its feeble fluttering that life was yet there.
Often, too, his soul was torn with, cruel fancies, and he feared that from that
corpse-like repose she might suddenly wake to madness, and his footsteps
quickened to reach the outer world, and to know the worst.
At last they gained the entrance of the cave, and the fresh breezes of
heaven brought something like consciousness to the insensible girl. Open-
ing her eyes for a moment, she looked vacantly around, and sighed ; then a
faint smile played around her lips, and she nestled more closely to Vernon's
breast.
" Thank God!" said Vernon, fervently, as he heard that life-like sigh.
His voice seemed to arrest her attention, though she appeared to try in
vain to unclose her eyes again, and her lips moved as though she were
dreaming, Avhile a few whispered words which Vernon's quick ear heard,
made his heart throb wildly while she spoke.
" Oh, it was a terrible dream," the white lips murmured, "but it is over
now; the longed-for peace has come at last."
"Sybil, dearest, my own beloved," whispered Vernon, forgetting 'all his
noble plans of concealment, " God is good; He did not, he will not take you
from me;" but the impassioned words were all unheard, she only, like a
CAROLINE HO WARD. Y5
tired child, drew closer to Ms bosom, not even knowing -y^here her .head wa«
pillowed, and soon Yernon heard her breathing in the calm sleep which
betokens life and health.
At this a new joy and strength rose in his sonl, and he felt there was
still something bright in life— Sybil would live — then he yielded to the
guide's remonstrances, and gave her np to the care of his wife, who laid her
upon her o^vn pleasant couch, and used restoratives which completely
aroused her to consciousness. Then Sybil begged to be taken home, and
when told that she was too much exhausted for the drive, with almost
childish petulance she prayed to be carried to her own room, knowing in its
familiar precincts, with her books around her, the soft landscape without,,
and Linwood's calm picture of Evening within, that she would soon be
restored. So they yielded to her entreaties, and entering their carriage?-
with the blessing of the kind guide and his wife, who had reason, from the
tangible reward which Vernon left them, to remember the day, they were
soon on their way to Vernon Grove.
Sybil and Vernon were alone ; he could not yield her to the care of
another while she was still so weak and helpless, and when he found that
she was unable to sit up, he drew her head upon his bosom and she rested
gratefully there. She smiled her thanks, too prostrated in mind and body
to utter many words, but remembering that she could not see such an
acknowledgment, said with earnest simplicity, " Now I know your worth,
my kind brother ; what should I do without your friendly support ?"
Vernon shuddered, but it was thus that he had taught her to address
him. Words of passionate affection quivered on his lips, but even had he
dared break his vow, that was no time or place, when lying there still trem-
bling and frightened, to tell her that the heart, near which she nestled, was
beating, wildly beating, with anything but a brother's love for her who
rested there.
Home being reached, Sybil insisted upon visiting her grandmother's room,
but finding her well cared for, and still in that imbecile, childish state in which
she had left her, gave herself up into the kind housekeeper's care, who
brought her some simple nourishment and insisted upon her retiring at once
to her own room. There, after a fervent prayer to God for her deliver-
ance, and an upward look at her favorite picture, which she had remembered
so faithfully and well, together with a tliought if he who painted it had
ever dreamed while he was executing it of the calming power it would
possess, she fell into a slumber like an infant's, as profound and as innocent.
76 WOMEIf OF THE SOUTH.
Vernon's inward struggle vras too strong for sleep. " She calls me only
what I tangbt her," said he bitterly, in the loneliness of the night, "but that
word Irother^ though so tenderly uttered, chilled me through and through.
Ah, never can I be to her anything but that, for have I not vowed it? And
besides, she regards me only as such, and any knowledge of my love for her
might annoy and disgust her, bereaving me even of a sister's affection."
Then he made renewed vows of concealment, praying fervently that God
would make him content that she should be the guardian angel of his
life.
It is a mad thing for a man to enter the lists against such 'a mighty power
as Love, who even with folded or clipped wings can scale the heavens, or
break through walls of adamant ; and it was a new discipline for Vernon to
guard himself against the thousand ways in which his heart was assailed by
the tempter, where inclination invited its approach, and principle forbade it.
It was a life struggle in which strength was opposed to an almost equal
strength ; but with Sybil's welfare on his side, Vernon hoped eventually for
victory.
SPEING-TIME.
God of the hours, God of these golden hours \
My heart o'erflows with love
To Thee, who giv'st with liberal hand these flowers ;
To Thee, who sendest cool, delicious showers
Fresh from the founts above.
God of the hours, the fleeting, checkered time,
TTheh nature smiles and weeps.
Thou paintest sunset clouds with hues sublime,
Thou tunest bird-notes to the joyous chime
That all creation keeps.
Pale emerald trees, how gracefully ye twine
Around your boughs a wreath ;
Or does some angel hand, with tcftich divine,
Bring from celestial bowers your verdure fine
To deck the bowers beneath ?
CAROLINE HOWARD. 77
How silently your leaflets, old and brown,
On undulating wings.
In autumn months, came floating, floating down,
To form a carpet as they formed a crown
For you, ye forest kings !
Well may ye bend' with proud and haughty sweep,
For sunbeams love to lie
Upon your boughs ; the breeze ye captive keep,
And even the dewdrops, which the night-clouda weep,
Upon your leaflets die.
Last eve the moon on modest twilight beamed,
And told the stars 'twas Spring !
She swept the wave, deliciously it gleamed.
She touched the birds, and woke them as they dreamed
A few soft notes to sing.
God of the April flowers, how large thy gift —
The rainbow of the skies
That spans the changing clouds with footsteps swift,
And "rainbows of the earth," that meekly lift
To Thee, their glorious eyes.
And not content with flowers rich and fair,
Thou givest perfume, too.
That loads with burden sweet the tender air,
And comes to fill the heart with rapture rare,
Each blushing morn anew.
God of the Spring-time hours, what give we TTiee,
While thus Thou bounteous art ? <•
Thou owest us naught, we owe Thee all we see-
Enjoyments, hope, thought, health, eternity,
The life-beat of each heart.
78 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
This morn came birds, on pinions bright and fleet,
A lullaby to sing
To "Winter as he slept — -but other voices sweet
The low dirge drowned, and warbled carol, meet
To greet the waking Spring.
Thus trees, and birds, and buds, and skies conspire
To speak unto the heart,
" Eenew thy strength ; be fresh ; be pure ; desire
To be new-touched with purifying fire,
That Evil's growth depart."
God of the heavens ! from our bosoms blow
he sin-leaves, and plant flowers
Bedewed by gentlest rains, that they may show,
How tended by thy love alone they grow,
God of these golden hours !
TO A BELOVED VOICE.
Speak it once more, once more, in accents soft,
Let the delicious music reach mine ear ;
Tell me in murmured accents oft and oft,
That I am dear.
Teach me the spell that clings around a word,
Teach to my lips the melody of thine.
And let the spoken name most often heard •
Be mine, be mine.
"Why in the still and dreamy twilight hour,
"When lone and tender musings fill the breast,
"Why does thy voice with its peculiar power
Still my unrest ?
CAROLINE HOWARD. 79
"Why does the memory of thy faintest tone
In the deep midnight come upon my soul,
And cheer the parting hours, so sad and lone,
As on they roll ?
Oh, if my passions overflow their bound,
Or pride, or hate, or anger call for blame,
Do thou^ with earnest, mild, rebuking sound,
But breathe my name:
But show the better way by thee approved,
Bid me control my erring wayward will,
And at the chiding of thy voice beloved,
All shaU be still.
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE.
Lives cradled in luxury are rarely heroic. Now and then
we find one, favored by nature and fortune, who is large
of heart, strong in mental resources, and daring enough to do
the work revealed, though the lines fall in rough places, and
the <:^-]id is not clear. Among these exceptions it is pleasant to
record i:h-3 name of Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie.
; ' Saikirog boldly out, when the call came, into an untried
field^bia,ving the opposition of friends, and the perils of a
profession then under the ban of church and society — she not
only achieved a brilliant career, but so preserved the attributes
of the true woman, as to exalt her vocation. Presenting to the
world the twofold aspect of actor and author, she distingilished
herself in each character, redeemed her fortunes, and provided
for the necessities of those dependent upon her. Her name is
given worthily to fame.
Samuel Gouverneur Ogden, the father of Mrs. Ritchie, for
years a merchant of high standing in New York, was a leading
spirit in the expedition under General Miranda, which, though
unsuccessful, opened the way to South American independence.
The losses consequent upon the failure of this expedition made
it necessary for him to remove to France, where he remained
ten years. He had married the grand-daughter of Francis
Lewis, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence.
At the birth of his daughter, Anna Cora Ogden, the family
were living at Bordeaux ; but a few months after found them
so
AXXA CORA MOW ATT RITCHIE. 81
domiciled at La Castagnc — a fine old country seat, Iavo miles
from Bordeaux — a retreat, it would seem, of almost paradisiacal
grace and beauty.
The children of this family, at that time eleven in number,
apj^ear very early to have given indications of marked histrionic
talent ; yet neither father nor mother were thcatri(tally inclined,
nor conld they trace the proclivity in either linci of ancestry.
Private plays were much in favor with the elder sons and
daughters, and at the extraordinary age oi four ypavR^ Anna
makes her cVlnd in the somewhat extraordinary character of
judge in the trial scene of " Othello." Imagine the baby
debutante sitting upon a high bench, in red gown and white
wig, making the wise eyes and mouth of an august presence.
It was the first ffiint whisper of destiny.
In her eighth year, on th^ 17th September, the family,
consisting of tlie father and mother, seven daughters and three
sons, embarked from Bordeaux, in the ship Brandt, for New
York. The voyage proved a most disastrous one. On the 30th
they encountered a terrific gale: two of the younger brothers
were swept into the sea, and one was lost. Tlie storm continued
for forty -eight hours, the vessel barely escaping total wreck.
After a fev/ repairs, they put back for Havre, and on the 15th
of October, again set sail, in the packet ship Queen Mab,
arrivin<»- at ?^ew York on the 24th November, 1826. But the
children carry La Castagne in their hearts, and the brick walls
of Gotham oppress them. They cannot speak English, the
American children are but dull pantomimists, and their
thoughts go out longingly after the frisking, mercurial i)lay-
mates they have left behind.
Anna and her sister are now placed in a New York board-
ing school, where the former makes her second appearance upon
a mimic stage, and wins her first laurels. Unable to attend
ecbool with regularity, on account of delicate health, she made
6
82 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
amends bj reading at liome whatever came in her way ; like
Charles Lamb's " Bridget Elia." " browsing at will upon the
fair and wholesome pasturage of good old English reading,"
with which her father's library was packed. Even at this age,
she had read Shakspeare's plays many times over.
At the age of fourteen, she proposed to her sisters that they
should enact a real play in honor of their father's birth-day.
Voltaire's '' Alzire " is selected, and suitable costumes are
provided by the proprietor of the Park Theatre. The fair
manager manages the whole thing, as if to the manner born,
and achieves her first trium^^h as an artiste^ by merging herself
in the Alzire she personates. So, step by step, with no dim
foreshadowing of the career of the woman, the child climbs the
first rounds in the ladder of its accomplishment.
At this time Anna made the acquaintance of James Mowatt,
a young lawyer of wealth and culture. He evidently saw in the
bright, handsome, self-asserting school-girl the promise of rare
development, and made haste to establish the right to bend the
twig as he would have the tree incline. Anna seems to have felt
a girlish pride in her man-of-the-world lover, who met her, each
day, on her way to school, carried her books and slate, directed
her studies, and rewarded application with munificent gifts of
books and flowers ; but she was entirely unprepared for a
serious proposal of marriage. What did she, a child of four-
teen summers, know of love — of the responsibilities and sanc-
tities of wifehood? Her own account of this phase of her life
is most piquant and significant.* But Mr. Mowatt was not to
be denied. Persevering importunity prevailed, and before the
age of fifteen, Anna was a betrothed bride ; her father consent-
ing, upon the very proper conditions, that the union should be
deferred two years, and Mr, Mowatt privileged to visit his
bride elect as often as any other gentleman:
* See Autobiography, p. 45,
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. S3
i
In tlie meantime Anna was to enter society ; in view of
wliicli event, Mr. Mowatt naturally grew nervous, and deter-
mined, if possible, to forestall the dreaded ordeal by a secret
marriage. For six months Anna was inexorable ; then, through
her heart of pity the child-woman relented, and the promise
was given; within a week she would become his wife. One
sister was taken into confidence, and the marriage was per-
formed by the French clergyman of the city. . The usual
indignation-storm and reconciliation-calm followed in regular
order. A few days passed in the old home, and Mr. and
Mrs. Mowatt removed to Flatbush, Long Island, where the
former had pm-chased a fine old mansion, once owned by
General Giles ; a great, rambling castle of a place, shut in by
stately trees, with dark vaults and secret chambers, bounteous
in ghostly legends and historic interest. Then there were broad
acres, made up of gardens and orchards, abounding with
fruits — smiling with flowers. Tliey called the place Melrose,
and Anna forgot to sigh for La Castagne.
Duly installed mistress and queen of this baronial estate,
she gathered about her a whole army of pets ; scoured the
country on her Arabian mure ; trundled hoops with her sister
May ; wrote poetry ; gave entertainments, varied with music,
dramatic performances, and tableaux vivants, and pursued her
studies. 'Not so bad a beginning, after all, for the gleesome
" child-wife." She began to think the " cares of married life "
were only a myth, invented to keep precocious children in their
proper sphere.
"WTien in her eighteenth year, her health, always delicate,
beginning perceptibly to fail, a sea voyage was recommended.
Her sister had recently married a German gentleman of wealth
and position, and it was arranged that Anna and a favorite
aunt should accompany them to Europe. The voyage was
made in three weeks, with most benignant effect upon the
84 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
S
invalid, and in a fortniglit she liad visited London and Ham-
burg, and settled in a temporary home among the relatives of
her brother-in-law in Bremen.
That she might become thoroughly- initiated into the mys-
teries of German life and language, Mrs. Mo watt hired a fur-
nished house, and commenced liousekeeping on the German
system. Determined, indefatigable, she was soon able to read
Goethe and .Schiller with ease.
While thus occupied, Mr. Mowatt arrived, and was soon
after stricken with partial blirldness, which confined him for
four months to a darkened room. In hope of relief, they then
went to Paris, where the case was so successfully treated by an
American surgeon, that, in a fortnight, Mr. Mowatt was able to
distinguish print. Tlien came to Mrs. Mowatt the joyous reac-
tion. Emerging from the darkened room, she, too, for the first
time, opened " wide eyes of sweet wonder " upon Paris. The
whirl, the buoyancy, the delicious abandon of Parisian life,
came to her languid body and weary spirit like sunbeams and
fresh air to the pale house-plant. General Cass was then the
American minister at Paris, and, with his pleasant family, con-
tributed not a little to her enjoyment.
In the meantmie, she did not lose sight of her favorite pur-
suits. Every morning, before breakfast, came the Italian
teacher, and, in snatches of time during the day, she not only
wrote elaborate articles for American periodicals, but designed
and commenced a drama in six acts, to be represented by herself
and sisters at a fete given on her return to America and Mel-
rose. This drama she called " Galzara, or the Persian Slave."
The play was afterward brought out successfully before a select
audience at Melrose ; it was also published in the " ISTew World,"
and noticed favorably by the press.
With a heart enlarged, and j)erceptions quickened by her
experience abroad, the young wife is once niore at liome, sport-
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 85
iiiii; among lier flowers and pets, and realizing the cliarm of her
surroundings with a new sense. She is nineteen now ; in the
first blush of womanhood, her mind poised and her spirit reso-
lute : more than half conscious of strength in reserve for some-
thing unforeseen and strange — and it comes.
Through Mr.' Mowatt's infirmity of sight, he became
incapable of the business of his profession, and reluctantly
abandoned it. Othello's occupation gone, a natural fondness
for speculation grew into a mania with him, and, soon after
their return to America, his ample fortune was swept suddenly
away. In one month Melrose must be sold. They must begin
life anew, this disabled husband and young wife — and how ?
Yery tenderly were these tidings unfolded to Anna, but her
dream was broken. Alone, in the bower built for her in the
first butterfly phase of her married life, she went down into
herself, and sat in solemn conclave with the present, the future,
her own good gifts, and new-born thoughts. It was the crisis
of her life, and she came out of it full-grown, with a purpose.
She was possessed of a full, rich, contralto voice ; she would give
dramatic readings, like Mr. Yandenhoff, and redeem her home.
Mr. Mowatt's consent gained, the way was open. With the
audacity of conscious ability, she allowed one fortnight for
preparation, and then put herself to the work with all her native
energy. Silencing objections with wise eloquence, and inspiring
those about her with the glow of her own dauntlessness, she
made selections from her favorite poets, recited aloud, each day,
in the open air, and laid the necessary plans to appear before a
public auditory. Boston had been called the American Athens.
She would be judged first by the highest standard of intellectual
taste, and secure a just, critical judgment. Our sometime pet
and hoop-trundler grows apace into the grave philosopher.
Through valuable letters of introduction, Mr. and Mrs.
Mowatt were favorably presented to the fastidious Athenians,
and, with the additional prestige of hisrh-toned personality, Mrs.
so WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
Mowatt was soon at liome among tliem. A series of readings
was given at the Masonic Temple under the brightest auspices.
The fine sensibilities of the woman quivered in the ordeal, but
the motive power was stronger and deeper than these, and he?
debut, before a large and select audience, was, in every sense, "^
triumph.
Leaving Boston, she gave one night's recitation in Prov*
dence, and then announced a course of readings at the Stuyve
sant Institute of'jSTew York. She had now to come before
friends and acquaintances, many of whom were disposed to
ostracize her for the heroism which they could not understand,
and so did not credit. She missed the magnetic, sympathetic
quality of her Boston auditpries, but, strong in the right, rose
out of the ungenial sphere and achieved her usual success.
But tlie excitement of an experience so new, as well as the
chilling demeanor of some on whose friendship she relied,
wrought painfully, at last, upon her sensitive system ; after
appearing once before the Rutgers' Institute, and giving a short
course to the Society Library of ^ew York, she was attacked
with fever and hemorrhage of the lungs, and for many months
held life by the slightest tenure.
During this illness, she for the first time became acquainted
with the phenomenon of mesmeric somnambulism, and declares
herself indebted to its agency, on more than one occasion, for
her life. The experiences which she has given to the Avorld on
this head, together with her own sound, sensible philosophy
concerning them, are worthy of careful consideration.
^ot regaining sufiicient strength to avail herself of one good
gift, she turned resolutely to another. Forced by their fallen
fortunes to occupy the most lucrative ground, she compiled
books, and
" Wrote for cyclopsedias, magazines,
And weekly papers, holding up her name
To keep it from the mud."
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 87
Mr. Mowatt, encouraged bj the ready sales of her books on
knitting, netting, cookery, and etiquette, then enabarked in the
publishing business, hoping thus to secure to Mrs. Mowatt the
entire profits of her toil, as well as to occupy her in a larger and
more congenial field. Under these auspices she prepared
abridgments of the lives of Goethe and Madame d'Arblay ; but
the people preferred etiquette and cookery to biography, and
amiably persistent in a good cause, she turned again to the most
profitable. About this time, in intervals of leisure, she wrote
" Evelyn," a tale of domestic life, in two volumes. The manu-
script, at the suggestion of an English friend, was sent to Lon-
don for publication ; but, on hearing from the modest London
publisher that he would bring out the book if she would be
good enough to raise her dead heroine and carry h'er through
another volume, she transferred it to an American house, more
regardful of quality than quantity.
It was at this stage of her life, and not, as some have sup-
posed, in her days of affluent ease, that Mrs. Mowatt took in
charge the three orphan children, whom she afterward reared
and educated; an act which the recording angel has writtec
the crowning grace of her life.
" Evelyn," successfully launched, was soon followed by
" Fashion," a spirited comedy, which was promptly accepted,
and brought out with unusual magnificence at the Park
Theatre. Mrs. Mowatt " awoke one morning and found her-
self famous," the success of her play having placed her at once
in the public eye, and challenged the especial consideration of
litterateurs and managers. From the latter she began now to
receive the most advantageous proposals to go upon the stage.
As if to leave her no alternative, Mr. Mowatt's publishing
house, at this juncture, disastrously failed. Conspiracy of
events most marked and unmistakable ! With a calm careful-
ness she reviews her life, and finds that the Divine hand alone
88 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
eould have led lier to tlie brink of this consummation. Assured
of this, the right path fully indicated, with the consent of her
husband and father, she would walk in it. She had lost none
of her womanly sensibilities, but she had learned to ensphere
them within a conscientious purpose.
With her usual promptitude, she set apart three weeks for
preparation, and then, as Pauline, in the " Lady of Lyons,"
made her debut at the Park Theatre, and became at once a
star. Proposals for engagements now crowded upon her from
all parts of the Union. She made the tour of the United
States, and in one year achieyed a series of two hundred
successes. The way was not all smooth and flowery ; her-
feet climbed many a Hill Difficulty, and pressed many a
thorn, but 'she remembered that she had entered the profes-
sion with a higher aim than mere amusement, and pushed
steadily on.
The experience of the second year was like that of the first ;
a persistent routine of study and discipline, a tour through the
United States, and a succession of engagements and triumphs.
At the close of this year, Mr. Mowatt sailed for Europe, to
prepare the way for her professional appearance in England,
and Mrs. Mowatt withdrew for a brief season to her father's
house, of which it is said she was ever the brightest, orna-
ment. Here, amid the gay criticisms of a bevy of gifted
sisters, who had come from near and far to welcome her, she
wrote " Armand," a drama in live acts, pledged, before its
commencement, to the manager of the Park Theatre. This
play was produced in the autumn of 1847, after the return of
Mr. Mowatt, Mr. Davenport and herself personating the prin-
cipal characters, and proved every way a worthy successor of
its honored sister, " Fashion."
On the 1st of ISTovember, 1847, Mr. and Mrs. Mowatt, in
company with Mr. Davenport, sailed from Boston for Europe ;
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 89
and after tossing for fifteen days in a succession of. gales,
arrived at Liverpool, quite worn out with illness and anxiety. .
Mrs. Mowatt was now to encounter a new trial. Her
husband had arranged, by the judicious advice of Mr.
Macready, that she should make her debut in some of the Eng-
lish provinces, in order to appear before a London audiences
fully accredited by English critics. The Tlieatre Royal, at
Manchester, had been selected, and the Yth of December was
the day appointed. English and American critics are of
different brotherhoods ; those of Manchester, in a high degree,
astute and hypercritical, merciless sifters of transatlantic pre-
tension. But failure was a word unknown in Mrs. Mowatt's
vocabulary ; with her faithful and accomplished coadjutor, Mr.
Davenport, she met the test fearlessly, and brought down the
phlegmatic English house in spite of itself.
After appearing every night for two weeks, she received
and accepted a proposal for an engagement at the Princesses'
Theatre, of London. The slow fire of Manchester criticism
was, after all, only an earnest of the white heat of her London
experience. At the first rehearsal, she was received by the
" stars " of the company with unqualified disdain, and listened
with the best grace she could command, while they dictated
the proper situations of the play, until patience, at last grow-
ing weary, she proA'-ed herself a worthy descendant of her
illustrious grandsires, by turning the tables upon her British
persecutors, i:i a most adroit and effective "Declaration of
Independence."
Again, despite the frigid atmosphere of her audience, the
sneers of " London assurance," the petty manoeuverings of Lon-
don rivals, and the horrors of " stage fright," her dehut was a
triumph, to which the London press lazily awoke and paid
tribute.
A six weeks' course at this theatre was followed by one of
00 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
still greater length at tlie Olympic, and a succession of engage-
ments at the Marylebone, Avliich left Mrs. Mowatt a fixed
" star " in the rojal firmament of the latter. Here " Armand "
was first given to the dramatic and literary world of London.
It was enacted twenty-one nights, winning for the artist-author
a double weight of golden opinions, and at the close of the
season, the more substantial oifering of an exquisite silver vase,
lined with gold, surmounted by a statuette of Shakspeare, and
inscribed " To Anna Cora Mowatt, for her services to the drama,
as authoress and actress, and as a record that worth and genius
from every land will ever be honored in Engla.nd."
An engagement for a second season at the Marylebone and
Olympic had been completed with great satisfaction to all
jjarties, when Mr. Mowatt was again stricken • with serious
illness and threatened with entire loss of sight. Hoping by
change of climate to effect a speedy cure, he set sail at once for
Trinidad. It was impossible for Mrs. Mowatt to accompany
liim. Through the fulfillment of her engagements alone could
she meet their many responsibilities, not least among them the
outfit of the invalid ; and with a brave heart she still pressed on
in the path marked out.
A third season engagement was entered into at the Olympic.
" Fashion " and " Armand " were re-produced and re-stamped
with cordial English favor; but with every steamer from Trinidad,
tidings of the invalid grew sadder ; intelligence of a painful
character reached her from America ; and when, at last, the
lessee and manager of the Olympic, a man high in the esteem
of the public, was arrested for embezzlement, the theatre closed
and the comj^any dispersed, her cup ran over ; she was attacked
with brain fever and lay for months in a state of unconscious-
ness. When she awoke^ her head had been shorn of its wealth
of tresses ; the winter had j^assed ; Mr. Mowatt had recovered
sufficiently to return, wasted and pallid, to England ; the
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 9X
manager had been convicted and sentenced, and, crazed with
the shock, had loosed his own life. All seemed, indeed, like a
fitful dream.
As soon as Mrs. Mowatt could endure the fatigue of the
journey, the two invalids removed to Malvern. Their cottage
was only a stone's throw from the famous water-cure establish-
ment of that place, and they passed the summer in the pursuit
of health. Mr. Mowatt then, for the first time, revealed the
startling; fact that the fruits of Mrs. 'Mowatt's toil had been
placed in the hands of the ill-starred manager, and that all was
lost. There was no time to linger ; she must gird her delicate
strength anew, and go forth to provide for their necessities.
The most advantageous ofier for an engagement which she
had received, and which Mr. Mowatt was bent on her accepting,
was from Dublin ; urged by him she nerved herself for the
trial, and, leaving the now partially restored, and really
cheerful invalid in charge of his faithful nurse and physician,
with a worthy woman in attendance, she turned her face
Dublinward.
A brilliant deJmt followed, and the usual series of successes
filled the engagement. Mrs-. Mowatt was then making prepa-
rations to return to London, when the news came that Mr.
Mowatt was no more. 'No need, now, to catch the trick of
sorrow — to put on grief like a robe — to weep w^ell — to moan
effectively ; the tragedy is real — and dumb. He had died like
one falling asleep, wdth her pet name, " Lily," upon his lips,
and a serene trust in his heart.
On the 9th of July, 1851, Mrs. Mowatt, accompanied by her
brother-in-law, embarked for America, arriving at I^ew York
on the night of the 22d instant. Two golden weeks were
passed in the bosom of her family, and she then appointed a
time when she would take leave of the stage ; resolving, mean-
while, to perfect lierself in her art, and retire in the very zenith
92 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
of artistic success. In pursuance of this plan, slie commenced
an engagement at ISTiblo's, and began to apply herself vigor-
ously to the study of her profession ; spending several hours each
day in dramatic reading, and testing each night the measure
and quality of her advance, by its effect upon her audience.
This engagement was followed by a jDrofessional tour through
the Union, marked by successes which were crowned most
fittingly by a complimentary benefit, proff'ered by the leading
men of Boston. To be told by such persons as Geo. £.
Hillard, Henry TV. Longfellow, E. P. ^Vhipple, Epes Sargent,
and others :
" You have not bought these honors with the price of
better things ; vou have moved with simple dignity along the
slippery paths of praise and success. "When we have seen you
embodying your own conceptions of tenderness and truth, we
have felt that the charm of your performance fiowed from the
fact that your words and your voice were but imperfect
expressions of yourself:" — to be told this by such men was no
common tribute.
Her star was steadily nearing the desired point, when Mrs.
Mowatt fell seriously ill, and was conveyed to her father's
house at Eavenswood, L. I., where, during the long months of
professional inactivity which followed, she wrote the " Auto-
biography," to which the world is indebted for its deepest and
truest knowledge of her twofold life. " Truth is stranger than
fiction." The book has all the charm of a romance, while on
every page we feel the strong leaps of a human heart. It is a
live lesson of moral courage and persistency sent home with
many a sparkling ho7i mot and shining tear.
In the winter of 1853, Mrs. Mowatt entered upon her fare-
well engagements. The clarion call of duty had been answered.
In nine years of loyal service, tiie special objects of her mission
4ad been accomijlished. She had redeemed that sweetest
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 93
privilege of competence — the power to minister unto the " shorn
lambs " within and witlioiit her fold. She had retained her
womanly graces, and magnified her office ; proving to the world
that the trne woman creates everywhere an inviolable sphere.
By close application to her art, and careful discipline of her
powers, she had come to sway the hearts of the people at will ;
and now, in her highest " dignities," it was meet and right that
the '' green curtain " of private life should fall before her.
Her farewell series were worthy of the career they crowned ;
the ^rand Jina/e at jS'iblo's, New' York, on the 2d of June, 1854,
exceeding in enthusiasm and brilliancy all the triumphs of the
past.
But while tlie life of the artiste was thus ending amid pompS
and acclamations, the life of the woman was quietly beginning
anew. Five days after Mrs. Mowatt's last appearance upon the
stage, she gave her fair hand and wealth of laurels — ^lier heart
had gone before — into the keeping of William Toushee Ritchie,
of Richmond, Ya., the editor of the "Richmond Enquirer;"
" a rare compound," as one has said,* " of ability and amia-
bility." The same graceful writer says of Mrs. Ritchie and her
new surroundings : " She lives, as a poet should, in a cottage
o?nc, a little distance from the city. I could have selected her
house jft'om a thousand as easily as I could the fair occupant
among a multitude of women. There were flowers before the
door, flowers on the lawn, a flowery taste manifest in the dispo-
sition of the window drapery; a pleasant, affectionate, riant
expression radiating from all around, fitly preluding the holy
harmony of a happy home. "Within, the entourage was more
exquisite still. Books, pictures, statuettes, and all the every-
day, yet elegant appliances of household life, completed the
ideal ' poetry of home.' "
* Sec " Belle Brittan on a Tour."
94 WOMEN OFTHESOUrS.
In 1855, Mrs. Eitchie gave to the world the volume, "Mimic
Life," a series of tales and pictures of the stage, which hold the
reader with their breathing verity. This was followed, in 1857,
by " Twin Hoses," a story also of stage life — a sweet, sad narra-
tive, dipped in the tenderest poetry of the writer's soul. Mrs.
Ritchie is yet true to her " mission," and aims to give in her
books faithful revelations of theatrical life, about which the
world, seeing it, at best, through a glass darkly, was getting
very dark fancies.
The stirring public life of Mrs. Mowatt does not seem at all
to affect tlie serene, private life of Mrs. Kitchie. Into its ambi-
ent atmosphere of love and beauty, there stealeth, apparently,
no longing for the old whirl and circumstance of the stage.
The centre of a gifted and refined circle, in communication with
many of the leading minds of the age — -Yice-Regent of the
Mount Yernon Association for Virginia, her life is still crowded.
The power of concentration is remarkable in Mrs. Hitchie. At
present, the purchase and improvement of Mount Yernon is the
all-absorbing thought with her, and every energy is pushed to
this consummation.
Of her success as a dramatist, it is sufiicient to say that
" Fashion " and " Armand " have kejDt the stage persistently,
the first for sixteen, the last for fourteen years. Her poetic
faculty should be gauged by passages — full of poetic fire and
beauty — in "^ Armand," rather than by her fugitive poems,
though many of these do her great credit.
"With the exception of her characteristic sketches, contributed
weekly to the " IS'ew York Ledger," she finds time, just no^^,
for no literary labor, every hour being occupied with home
duties, correspondence, and the various claims of Mount Yer-
non.
[Since this was written, a great sorrow has come uj)on Mrs.
Kitchie, in the death of her father. On the 5th of April, 1860,
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 95
after an illness of twelve days, during the agonies of wliicli lie
beautifully demonstrated tlie power of a Christian faith, Mr.
Ogden passed, in the eighty-first year of his age, to another
sphere. Bound to him by a love that was more than filial, for
ten days and nights this daughter, the pride and joy of his long
life, kept faithful vigil by his bedside, and when he " fell asleep,
it was calmly and gently, like a trusting child, in her arms.]
MESMERIC SOMNAMBULISM.
I was annoyed at being told that I had spoken, done, or written that of
u-hich I had no recollection. . iSTnmerous poems were placed m nij hands,
which, I was informed, I had improvised as rapidly as they could be taken
iluwn, the subjects having been given hap-hazard by any person present.
It was no particular gratification to be assured that I had never produced
unything as good before. Xor was it any consolation to be told that in
Bleep-waking I was far more sensible, more interesting, and more amiable
than in my ordinary state. "With womanly perverseness, I preferred my
Dvery-day imperfection to this mysterious and incomprthensibly-brought-
ubout superiority. For the former I was, at least, responsible ; to the latter
I could lay no conscious claim.
I say conscious claim, though it may be admitted that there may be
eep-'^ratti states of consciousness. In the phenomena of this separation, the
student of human nature may, I believe, find the clue to momentous truths.
The essentia] facts in ordinary somnambulism will not be denied except
by those a'vfuUy rigorous inquirers who will accept nothing which they
cannot weigh, gauge, and handle, and who are quite as likely to be de-
ceived as the most credulous, inasmuch as the skepticism which admits
too little is as liable to mistake as the marvellous propensity which admits
too much. But if pretenders to science will not grant it, common expe-
rience and common sense will, that a person in somnambulism may hold
long and rational conversations, and perform acts, of which he will have
no recollection in his waking state. Let him again pass, however, into
somnambulism, and he can recall everything that he ever experienced in
that state.
It would seem from this common aud undeniable phenomenon, as if ther*
96 wo ME ^r OF THE SOUTH.
were an inner consciousness occupying a higher plane than the external, and
commanding a more extensive prospect, a consciousness undeveloped in most
minds except hy flashes^ and retiring within itself before the external can
distinctly realize its presence.
How shall we account for the thick veil of separation, dropped at once
by the cessation of somnambulism (whether independent or induced by mes-
merism) between the normal and abnormal, the external and internal con-
sciousness? An analogy drawn from intoxication or insanity is not quite
applicable here ; for under somnambulism, one may be as calm and rational,
and as completely in possession of all his faculties, as ever in a waking state ;
nay, those faculties may be considerably quickened and exalted. And yet a
wave of the mesmerizer's hand will bring the subject back from the higher
to the lower every-day consciousness where all that he has been saying and
doing in his somnambulic state is an utter blank! Another wave of the
hand, or an access of natural somnambulism, intirely independent of mes-
merism, and lo! all the knowledge of the former state is restored, as if a
curtain had been lifted.
On one point I felt a degree of satisfaction, though perhaps it was only a
proof of my natural obstinacy. They told me that I was what is called an
independent somnambulist, and that I could, at any time, defeat the will of
the mesmerizer, unless I chose to submit. It was also told me that my
reasoning faculties were singularly developed under somnambulism, and
that I often maintained opinions at variance with those of the mesmerizer,
and others with whom I was in communication, especially on religious sub-
jects. These opinions I could not be forced to relinquish by arguments, or
even through the exertion of a superior will.
AN OLD MAID.
An old maid ! "Was there ever woman so wise that she could hear the
obnoxious title applied to herself without a suppressed sigh ? Though few
are the old maids who might not have been wives if they had so willed, the
sense of incompleteness — of undeveloped capacities — of unfulfilled duties,
perforce will cause a passing pang.
But who that knows Miriam Pleasance feels that the life of an old maid
is necessarily dreary, profitless, colorless ? And is Miriam an old maid ?
Damsels in the primrose-season of youth, for whom the wedding ring binds
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 97
in its charmed circle the manifold joys of an ideal elvsium, mockingly call
her so ; happy mothers about whose necks twine the cliubby anas of cherub
childhood, keeping " low and wise " the "vines that bear such fruit," pity-
ingly call her so ; broken-hearted wives, whose shattered idols prove all clay
and ashes, whose pale lips, wreathed in smiles, veil, with Spartan heroism, the
vulture preying on their souls, indignantly call her so ! But mark how men —
intellectual, thinking, feeling men— hesitate to apply the ungallant appella-
tion to sweet Miriam. Perhaps they are tongue-tied by that vague charm
about her which half cheats one into the belief that she carries in her vestal
bosom some mystical light ("the lamp of human love"), and lets fall its radi-
ance on the path she treads, on the hearth where she sits, on the face into wliicb
she gazes. Certain it is that all are strangely brightened by her presence.
Man recognizes the magic of a cheerful influence in women more quickly
and more willingly than the potency of dazzling genius — of commanding
worth — or even of enslaving beauty. Thus men, in general, value Miriam''s
especial gift above the more brilliant endowments of her favored sisters.
In stature Miriam is below the medium height. A form not voluptuously
rounded nor charmingly fragile, but a neat, compact little figure, supple and
light of motion. Not a single feature of her countenance can be termed
beautiful, yet the whole face possesses a mobility — a capacity for rapidly
varying expression — an indefinable harmony that produces the effect of
beauty. Her white teeth sparkle between flexible lips — her black eyes
dance and shine through jetty fringes — her dark hair, fine but not abundant,
is knotted with peculiar grace at. the back of an admirably balanced head.
Her dress is usually of some neutral tint — a silver grey — a delicate fawn
— or a soft dove color, lighted up and relieved by the gleam of cri'uson, or
dark blue, or purple ribbons.
Then her age— she has passed the season of youth — of summer, perhaps,
and is verging upon autumn. A rich, mellow autumn — an autumn full of
gorgeous tints — an autunm whose forest leaves turn to scarlet and gold
without withering — an autumn that makes one think the spring-time could
hardly have been so beautiful. True, the dewy, evanescent, morning fresh-
ness is gone, but in its place reigns the more lasting, self-renewed freshness
of mental and physical vigor. In a word, Miriam has reached and passed the
green ascent of thirty, and is calmly descending the verdant slope beyond.
But life has been all gain to her — she has gathered fruits of knowledge, and
flowers of beauty, and herbs of balm on the way, and lost nothing she does
not think it well to part with in exchange.
7
93 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
We have seldom met with an old maid upon the pages of whose early
history tliere was not some love-tale inscribed — some story of unrequited
affection — of betrayed hopes — of love sacrificed to duty — or of the grave's
untimely snatching away. But strange to say, there is no love-tale written
Qpon Miriam's book of life. She could never have been numbered among
that large class of maidens who, according to Rasselas, "think they are in
love, when in fact they are only idle." Her intellect is too highly cultivated
—her penetration too acute — her life too active, for her to form an attach-
ment through the mere "Jesoin (Z'amer," the longing, though 6ften uncon-
scious, desire to be loved and protected, which is the secret spring of half
the so-called love-matches in the world. A young girl's affections, like
graceful tendrils formed to cling, too often twine themselves around the
object nearest and most inviting, and no other vindication save that it was
near and invited.
" Seeing that to waste true love on anything
Is womanly past question."
But if Miriam unconsciously admits that love is a "grand necessity" of
existence, she feels that existence has other necessities. To bestow her
heart, her judgment must approve the gift, and she has not encountered the
b'Qmg (thougli doubtless such exists) who could win the one with the
approval of the other. This is the sole secret of her freedom.
Had Miriam been thrown upon her own resources to gain a livelihood,
her energy of character, and her delight in use, would have impelled her to
fill and dignify some of the few intellectual avocations which woman's hands
and brains are allowed to grace. Her birth and wealth forbid, yet the cur-
rent of life, with such an organization, can never become stagnant. Occu-
pation is enjoyment. Her perceptions are keenly alive to discover the work
that is spread for her hands, and to do it when found. She religiously
believes that there is work. Heaven-allotted, to all, in the great vineyard of
the world, and that our work lies just within our grasp, if we will but look
for and recognize the task. "Labor is worship!" says the prophet.
"Labor is worship," responds every throbbing pulse in Miriam's well-
attuned frame. Like the woman of Bethany who poured the perfumed oint-
ment (her humble attribute of love) upon the head of her Lord, she " did
what she could!" What she could? What more could be required of her?
Do what we can — as mucli as we can — all loe can ! Oli, how lar^" - ^
the sum of works of the very humblest, feeblest, poorest
ANNA CORA M 0 W A T T RITCHIE. 99
in the Hereafter, if they only "did what they could I^'' Alas! for the thou-
sand opportunities of ministering and comforting thrown daily in our path-
way, while we pass by on the other side through sheer unconcern — through
"lack of thought" rather than "lack of heart!" WiU they not rise up to
convict us when we render the account of our stewardship in the great
day?
With such thoughts ever quickening her to action, Miriam takes a lively,
never-failing interest in all things around her. No fellow-creature is indif-
ferent to her. She regards all with a tender sympathy — a sympathy which
breaks unaware through cold conventionalities, and fraternizes with beings
too seldom recognized as members of the human family. Toward the sick,
the poor, the sad, the sutFei'ing in any shape, her hand is unhesitatingly
stretched out. They need no. credentials, save the stamp of sadness, sick-
ness, poverty ; and prompt aid is true aid. She seems endowed with God's
special license to console — to translate mysterious sorrows into promised
joys — to strengthen the weak — to soften the hard — to reconcile the
rebellious.
The history of any one day of her life would fill chapters with scenes of
anguish — of passion — of hope — of happy consummations, that might adorn
the pages of a romance.
Thus, Miriam, "the old maid," is not less happy, less useful — less heloved
than the wife and mother whose heart and hands are full of alternate cares
and blessings. Those upon whose path of life the smile of Miriam Pleasance
shines, never after speak scornfully of an " old maid." We entertain but one
fear for Miriam — it is that she will not always bear the vestal title around
which she has woven such an indescribable charm.
WOMAN-FRIENDSHIP.
All the world gives ready credence to the possibility of friendship,
between man and man — some people are even inclined to believe that the
immutable attachment of Orestes and Pylades, of iEneas and Achates, may
be repeated among men in these inconstant modern times ; — but the devotion
of woman to one of her own sex, the sincerity with which she clasps tlie
hand or presses the lip of woman, the genuineness of her self-sacrifices daily
made for a beloved sister, are subjects of a vast amount of skepticism.
Philosophic writers, poets, wits, have openly declared their disbelief in the
100 WOMEK OF THE SOUTH.
existence of the strange phenomena of woman-friendships. Even Dinah
Mulock, who has written so many lines of woman which bear the impress
of truth and wisdom — who has solved so many of the enigmas inseparable
from woman's nature — gravely shakes her head when she touches upon
" female friendships," and calls up such a doubting host of " ifs " and " huts "
to usher in the possibility of perfect love between women, that we inevitably
draw the inference that she sides with the unbelievers.
On the other hand, Shakspeare, that "intellectual miracle," (as he has
been called) whose seer-like vision pierced deeper than the eyes of grosser
mortals — Shakspeare, whose magic plummet sounded the unreached, uncom-
prehended depths of the human soul, reveals the hearts of women united by
adamantine links.
Instance the clingiag fondness of Helena and Hermia, in Midsummer
Night's Dream:"
""We, Hermia, like tv.o artificial gods,
Have with our needles, created both one flower
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key,
As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds,
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet a unison in partition,
Two lovely berries molded on one stem ;
So with two seeming bodies, but one heart :
Two of the first like coats in heraldry.
Due but to one, and crowned with one crest."
We have another illustration of woman-friendship, in its consummate
beauty, portrayed in the passionate, protecting love of Beatrice for Hero in
" Much Ado About Nothing;" and in "As You Like It," a stiU stronger
picture in the self-renouncing, absolute devotion for Eosalind of the gentle
Celia, who startles her wratl ful father with the declaration :
" If she be a traitor.
Why, so am I; we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together,
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans
Still we went coupled and inseparable 1"'
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. lOl
"When the implacable Duke banishes Rosalind, Celia replies :
" Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege,
I cannot live out of her company."
Shakspeare against the -world ! for who knew the world one half so well ?
Not only are we impressed by the conviction that his glowing portraitures
of woman-friendship are life-drawn ; not only have we perfect faith in the
possibility of a thoroughly unselfish, all-absorbing attachment between two
women, but we entertain the belief that there are certain female minds so
constituted that a tender friendship with one of the same sex is positively
indispensable to happiness. Such natures experience an irresistible impulse
to confide in one who, enlightened by her own yearnings and failings, caa
understand feminine wants and frailties — who can look upon feminine insuf-
ficiencies, not from a strong, manly, but a weak, womanly point of view.
A woman may be the most irreproachable of wives to the best of
husbands, and yet feel a void in her affections, a chamber in lier large heart
unfilled — a something needful lacking, if there be no Celia into whose ear
she can pour the history of her joys and sorrows — to whom she can turn for
advice, and lenient judgment, and comprehending sympathy.
There are trivial domestic difficulties, petty annoyances, perplexing
positions with which no woman of tact will trouble and bewilder her husband
by relating to him. If he is a man of decided intellect, he will not attach
any importance to these small crosses, will not even understand these
minor miseries, Jnd the wife is thrown back upon her own resources, vexed
and disheartened by her failing attempt to enlist his aid or sympathy. If he
is a man of lirp'ted mental powers, he will be more annoyed than she, and
will only increase her vexations without disentangling a single thread of the
fine web of dilemmas, into which she is snared. But to a sympathetic female
companion, a (voman may enter into all the details of these insignificant
trials, and, clasping a friend's hand, she may search for and discover the clue
that can guide her out of her domestic labyrinth.
The higher love — the love for man — neither absorbs nor forbids the
lower, the friendship for woman. They are distinct, emotional capacities
which may be coexistent in one heart. They are evidences of rich, spiritual
organization. If they dwell together in pristine purity, one affection
strengthens rather than weakens the other.
Ifho can deny that two women, through a mysterious affinity, ma^
102 WOMEN OF THE SOUTE.
become, and recognize eacli other as sisters in lieart ? Who can doubt that
there is a bond of sisterhood between their spirits, as real and as strong as
the tie of blood between sisters ? And if this be true, must not that internal
kinship outlive even the dissevering stroke of death, and proclaim them true
sisters in the great hereafter ? But in this lower sphere, what name can we
give to their attachment but that of " woman-friendship ?"
LADY TEAZLE'S INOPPOETUNE NAP.
As may be readily imagined, I was often weary to exhaustion, even
during the performance. On one occasion my fatigue very nearly placed me
in a predicament as awkward to me as it would have been amusing to
the audience. We were fulfilling a long engagement at Niblo's. 1 was
playing Lady Teazle in the " School for Scandal." When Lady Teazle, at
the announcement of Sir Peter, is concealed behind the screen in Joseph
Surface's library, she is compelled to remain a quarter of an hour, or per-
haps twenty minutes, in this confinement. I was dreadfully fatigued, and
glad of the opportunity to rest. There was no chair. At first I knelt for
relief. Becoming tired of that position, I quietly laid myself down, and,
regardless of Lady Teazle's ostrich plumes, made a pillow of my arms for
my head. I listened to Placide's most humorous personation of Sir Peter
for a while ; but gradually his voice grew more and more indistinct, melt-
ing into a soothing murmur, and then was heard no more. I fell into a
profound sleep. When Charles Surface is announced. Sir Peter is hurried
by Joseph into the closet. Lady Teazle (according to Sheridan) peeps from
behind the screen, and intimates to Joseph the propriety of locking Sir
Peter in, and proposes her own escape. At the sound of Charles Surface's
step, she steals behind the screen again. The cue was given, but no Lady
Teazle made her appearance. She was slumbering in happy unconscious-
ness that theatres were ever instituted.
Mr. Jones, the prompter, supposing that I had forgotten my part, ran
to one of the wings from which he could obtain a view behind the screen.
To his mingled diversion and consternation, he beheld Lady Teazle placidly
p^-^^r^;r•n. imor, tjje floor. Of course, he could not reach her. I have '
the frantic manner in which he shouted, in an imp'
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 103
stage -whisper, "Mrs. Mowatt, wake up! For goodness sake, wake up!
Charles Surface is just going to pull the screen down ! "Wake up ! You'll
be caught by the audience asleep ! Wake up ! Good gracious, do wake
up!"
I have some confused recollection of hearing the words "wake upi
wake up !" As I opened my heavy eyes, they fell upon Mr. Jones, making
the most violent gesticulations, waving about his prompt-book, and almost
dancing in the excitement of his alarm. The hand of Charles Surface was
already on the screen. I sprang to my feet, hardly remembering where I
was, and had barely time to smooth down my train when the screen fell.
A moment sooner, and how would the slumbering Lady Teazle, suddenly
iiwakened, have contrived to impress the audience with the sense of her deep
contrition for her imprudence ! how persuaded her husband that she had
discovered her injustice to him during her pleasant nap !
JULIET'S DAGGER.
During the drudgery of rehearsal, the actor drops disenchanted from the
realms of cloudland, where he dwelt with the ideal creations of the poet.
The incongruous elements that compose, the frigid atmosphere that pervades,
a theatre blind his mental vision. He struggles in vain to catch the golden
rays that flooded his spirit in its serene seclusion. The prismatic hues of
imagination fade into utter darkness before the conventionalities of his pro-
fession. All the delicacies of his inspired conception suddenly vanish, and
he stands with the bare, cold outline of what he designed, before him, power-
less to clothe it with beauty. Thus I felt when I first attempted to rehearse
Juliet. Disappointed and dispirited, I turned wearily from the task.
But when night comes, and the actor lays aside his personality with his
every-day garments, the Promethean fire is rekindled — he reascends the
heiglitfrom which he fell in the morning — external circumstances lie beneath
his feet — his gaze is upward, not downward — he not embodies merely, but
ensowht\\e emanation of the poet's mind. Such were my experiences when
I first had the hardihood to enact Juliet.
ISTo character ever excited me more intensely. Juliet's dagger, too im-
petuously used, more than once drew blood. But I found the sensation of
stabbing one's self anything but poetic ; the dagger's point was consequently
dulled into harmlessness. Once 1 forgot this necessary appendage of the
104 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
heroine in the last act. Eomeo, who was lying dead upon the ground, was
better provided. As I stooped to loosen the steel from his girdle, the
poisoned lover, who was aware of my stabbing episodes, came suddenly to
life, and whispered, in a sepulchral tone, "Look out — it's very sharp — you'll
Btab yourself."
JULIET'S TOMB.
I well remember my sensations the first time I was ever laid in Juliet's
tomb. The friar tells her that, according to the custom of her country, she
shall be borne
"In her best robes, uncovered, on the bier."
Adhering to the text, I have since worn bridal attire in place of the shroud-
like dress usually adopted by stage Juliets. But that night, a loose white
muslin robe, drawn in folds around the throat, and fastened with a cord at
the waist, was the garment accidentally chosen for me. It was too palpably
suited' to the bier. The walls of the tomb were hung with black. An
antique lamp, that shed a luridly-green light upon my f?ce, was suspended
from the centre of the sombre, though temporary, inclosure. As I lay wait-
ing for Romeo to kill Paris, and break open the doors of the sepulchre, I
overheard the whispered conversation of some scene-shifters who stood with-
out. They were each holding a cord attached to the doors of the tomb.
The cords according to stage direction, were to be loosened at the third blow
of Eomeo's "wrenching iron." The worthy scene-shifters passed sentence
of death upon me with admirable sang froid^ and decided that I -w-ould soon
be lying " for good " and " in earnest " where I was then reposing as Juliet's
representative — in the tomb.
To use the expressive language of one of the men, I was " booked for the
other world, and no mistake!" Their grave predictions were interrupted by
Romeo's first blow upon the door. I was not particularly sorry when the
funereal portals flew back, and he bore me out of the mock sepulchre.
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 105
THE REPEESENTATIVE BALCONY.
Juliet -was one of the characters in which I seemed fated to be placed in
constant peril of life or limb. Several times the balcony, from which the
loving lady of Verona makes her midnight confession to Eomeo, was danger-
ously insecure. Once a portion of the railing, over which I was leaning,
forgetful of its representative nature, gave way. Had I not dropped suddenly
on my knees, Juliet must have been precipitated into Romeo's arms before
he expected her, and very probably would not have visited Friar Lawrence's
cell that night.
THE INKY POTION.
One evening, the property man — so the individual who has the charge of
potions, amulets, caskets of jewels, purses filled with any quantity of golden
coin, and other theatrical treasures, designated as stage properties, is styled
— forgot the bottle containing Juliet's sleeping potion. The omission was
only discovered at the moment the vial was needed. Some bottle must be
furnished to the Friar, or he cannot utter the solemn charge with which he
confides the drug to the perplexed scion of the Capulets. The property man
confused at discovering his own neglect, and fearful of the fine to which it
would subject him, caught up the first small bottle at hand, and gaA^e it to
the Friar. The vial was the prompter's, and contained inTc. When Juliet
snatched the fatal potion from the Friar's hand, he whispered something in
an undertone. I caught the words, "so take care," but was too absorbed in
my part to comprehend the warning. Juliet returns home — meets her
parents — retires to her own chamber — dismisses her nurse — and finally
drinks the potion. At the words —
" Romeo ! this do I drink to thee !"
I placed the bottle to my lips, and unsuspiciously swallowed the inky
draught ! The dark stain upon my hands and lips might have been mistaken
tor the quick workings of the poison, for the audience remained ignorant of
the mishap, which I only half comprehended. When the scene closed, the
prompter rushed up to me, exclainnng, " Good gracious ! you have been
drinking my bottle of ink I" T could not resist the temptation of quoting the
106 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
r^-iiark of the dying wit under similar circumstances, "Let me s-waliow a
bheet of blotting-paper !" The frightened prompter, however, did not under-
stand the joke.
THE CAUTIOUS AOTOE.
The misfortunes that attended the representation of Eomeo and Juliet
that night, did not all fall upon me. The part of Paris was intrusted to a
promising young novice. He delivered the language with scholarly precision,
and might have passed for an actor until he came to the fighting scene
with Romeo. Eomeo disarmed him with a facility which did great credit
to the good nature of Paris, for whom life had, of course, lost its charms
with Juliet. It then became the duty of Paris, who is mortally wounded, to
die. The Paris on this occasion took his death-blow very kindly. His dying
preparations were made with praiseworthy deliberation. First he looked
over one shoulder, and then over the other, to find a soft place where he
might fall — it was evidently his intention to yield up his existence as com-
fortably as possible. Having satisfied himself in the selection of an advan-
tageous spot, he dropped down gently, breaking his descent in a manner not
altogether describable. As he softly laid himself back, he informed Eomeo
of the calamity that had befallen him by ejaculating :
"0, I am slain!"
The audience hissed their rebellion at such an easy death.
" If thou art merciful "
continued Paris — the audience hissed more loudly still, as though calling upon
Romeo to show no mercy to a man who died so luxuriously.
" Open the tomb, and '"
faltered Paris — but what disposition he preferred to be made of the mortal
mold, upon which he had bestowed such care, no Romeo could have heard ;
for the redoubled hisses of the audience drowned all other sounds, and
admonished Paris to precipitate his departure to the other world.
The next day, the young aspirant for dramatic distinction was summoned
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. IQV
by the manager, and asked what he meant bj dying in such a manner on the
night previous.
" Why, T thought that I did the thing in the most gentlemanly style,"
replied the discomfited Thespian.
" How came you to look behind you, sir, before you fell V angrily inquired
the manager.
" Surely you wouldn't have me drop down without looking out to see
what I was going to strike against?"
'' Do you suppose a man, when he is killed in reality, looks behind him
for a convenient spot before he falls, sir ?"
" But I wasn't killed in reality, and I was afraid of dislocating my shoul-
der!" pleaded Paris.
" Afraid of dislocating your shoulder ! If you are afraid of breaking your
leg, or your neck either, when you are acting," said the stem manager,
" you're not fit for this profession. Your instinct of self-preservation is too
large for an actor's economy. You're dismissed, sir ; there's no employment
here for persons of your cautious temperament."
HAPPIKESS.
Babette. You seemed so happy !
Blanche. Then did I — do I seem the thing I am !
Seem happy — how could I seem otherwise ?
'Tis happiness to me to live — to be !
My very instincts — nay, the very use
Of every separate sense by which we hold
Communion visible with external being
Is happiness ! To gaze upon the sky
Arched in blue glory o'er my upturned head —
The forms of beauty called by loving spring
Out of the affluent bosom of the earth ;
The sun, beneath whose warm, resplendent light
All nature teems : these simplest, daily things,
"Which custom cannot strip of loveliness,
108 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
To look on these is to be happy ! — is
To feel my bosom swell with gratitude
To Him who made them, to make us more blest I
ARMAND'S GEIEF.
Arm. (after gazing awJiile on Blanche.)
Oh! Blanche! my own — though lost — still, stiU my own!
A little while I yet may gaze on thee.
And in the treasury of my soul may store
The memory of each stiff 'ning lineament
Where beauty lingers still ! "It cannot be !
Shall those soft eyes no more look into mine,
Nor veil themselves when with too bold a joy
I gaze within their azure depths ? shall love,
With its aurora, tint thy cheek no more ?
The low, glad music of thy voice, no more
Sunder those gentle lips, with words that feU
Like blessings on the ears that took them in?
My Blanche! my other and my better self!
How weary seems the path I thought to climb,
Thy hand in mine, — thy smile to light me on.
Thy sunny presence to make glad each step !
Alone life's burden must be borne — alone
The struggling heart crush underneath its weight I"
A holy smile yet hovers on thy face.
As though the ^ngels, when they summoned thee,
One golden glimpse of paradise revealed,
And left that happy print upon thy lip.
No, no ! thou art not lost — we are not parted !
For, Heavenward as my tearful eyes I turn,
A radiant vision meets them there, and bids
Me guard my soul, unsullied by a deed
That could divide us in that land of joy !
My heart hath but one wish — my life one hope —
All time one joy — that of rejoining thee !
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 109
ARMAND'S LOVE.
King. You loved her, then ?
Arm. Loved her? the earliest page
In memory's record held hut that young love.
From boyhood up to youth — from youth to manhood —
Each tenderer thought — sublimer aspiration —
And purer hope was woven with that love.
Our very natures blended as we grew,
My spirit, gentleness from hers imbibed,
And hers, its strength and vigor caught from mine !
Our childish tears upon each other's breast
Were ever shed. Our childish laughter rang
The changes of its mingling mirth together.
And in each other's joy all childhood's blessings
Were mirrored — magnified — and multiplied !
ARMAND'S TRUTH.
King. Beware ! our patience is not made of stuff
Too lasting — try it not beyond its strength —
Marry De Rohan's daughter ! • 'Tis thy king
Commands !
Arm. My gracious liege, no king can tear
The land-marks from the honest path of Truth.
Marry ! call'st thou that mari'iage which but joins
Two hands with iron bonds ? that yokes, but not
Unites, two hearts whose pulses never beat
In unison ? The legal crime that mocks
The very name of marriage — that invades —
Profanes — destroys its inner holiness ?
ITo ! 'tis the spirit that alone can wed,
When with spontaneous joy it seeks and finds,
And with its kindred spirit Mends itself!
My liege, there is no other marriage tie !
110 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
VIRTUE ITS OWN SHIELD.
King. Nay, Blanche,
Mar not thy beauty with this frigid bearing,
Frowns do not suit those gentle eyes, nor fierceness
Thy timid nature — weak thou art —
Blan. Not weak,
My liege, when roused by insult and by wrong !
I tell thee, haughty king — presumptuous man !
That like the unshorn locks the Nazarene
Vowed to his God — the purity of woman
Becomes at once her glory and her might !
King, Ah, Blanche ! and is there no excuse for love ?
Blan. Thy love is but self-love! that first and worst
Of passions — poisoned spring of every crime —
Which hath no attribute of perfect love!
King. This to thy king ?
Blan. Art kingly in thy deeds ?
The star that shines so brightly on thy breast
Is worthless if it shed no light within !
The thr'^ne that lifts.thee o'er thy fellow-men
Should teach thee virtues which aione can raise
Thee 'hove them !
King. At thy feet let me implore —
Blan. Stand off! approach me not !
King. Thou fearest me, then ?
Blan. Fear thee ? Danger should be where fear is — I see none !
King. Woman ! thou shalt not brave me thus ! [Seises her.
No human power can save thee — thou art mine.!
What are thy feeble struggles in my grasp ?
Blan. {sinlcing on her hnees) Spare me, my liege, spare me !
King. It is thy turn
To sue, and all in vain ! thou hast forgot
That I am king, and thou hast no protector !
BUn. (starting up) I have ! I have ! One who forsakes me not !
One whom thou darest not brave ! unloose thy hold
ANNA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. HI
Or dread his fury ! Heaven protects me still !
[The ling releases Jiei\ awed ty her manner.
Thou art my sovereign — I a friendless subject —
I woman and thou man ! — my helplessness
Was of itself a claim to thy protection —
A claim thou hast rejected! Answer, king !
Hast thou done right? Man, was it well to use
Thy strength against my weakness ? Thou art dumb !
Thou canst not answer ! King of France, I scorn thee !
[Exit L. 1 L.
King. "Why should I shrink from one so powerless ?
And can it be that Virtue's presence awes
Me thus? That Virtue which no weapon needs
Except its own resistless dignity !
She speaks, I'm hushed — she spurns me, and I cower —
She leaves me, and I dare not foUow her !
MR. AND MRS. TIFFANY AT HOME.
Tlf. Tour extravagance will ruin me, Mrs. Tiffany '
Mrs. Tif. And your stinginess will ruin me, Mr. Tiffany ! It is totally
and loot a fate impossible to convince you of the necessity of Tceeping vp._
appearances. There is a certain display which every woman of fashion is
forced to make !
T'if. And pray who made you a woman of fashion ?
Mrs. Tif. What a vulgar question ! AU women of fashion, Mr.
Tiffany —
Ti,f. In this land are self constituted^ like you, madam — and fashion is
the cloak for more sins than charity ever covered ! It was for fashion's sake
that you insisted upon my purchasing this expensive house — it was for
fashion'^s sake that you ran me in debt at every exorbitant upholsterer's and
extravagant furniture warehouse in the city — it was for fashion'' s sake that
you built that ruinous conservatory — hired more servants than they have
persons to wait upon — and dressed your footman like a harlequin !
Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, you are thoroughly plebeian, and insufferably
112 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
American, in your grovelling ideas ! And pray what was the occasion cf
these very mal-appro-pos remarks? Merely because I requested a paltry
fifty dollars to purchase a new style of head-dress — a lijou of an article just
introduced in France.
Tif. Time was, Mrs. Tiffany, when you manufactured your own French
head-dresses — took off their first gloss at the jjublic halls, and then sold
them to your shortest-sighted customers. And all you knew about France
or Frencli either, was what you spelt out at the bottom of your fashion
plates — ^but now you have grown so fashionable, forsooth, that you have
forgotten how to speak your mother tongue !
Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, Mr. Tiffany! Nothing is more positively vul-
garian— more unaristocratic than any allusion to the past !
Tif. "Why I thought, my dear, that aristocrats lived, principally, upon
the past — and traded in the market of fashion with the bones of their
ancestors for capital?
Mrs. Tif. Mr. Tiffany, such vulgar remarks are only> suitable to the
counting-house, in my drawing-room you should
Tif. Vary my sentiments with my locality, as you change your manners
with your dress !
Mrs. Tif. ;^r. Tiffany, I desire that you will purchase Count d'Orsay's
"Science of Etiquette," and learn how to conduct yourself — especially before
you appear at the grand ball, which I shall give on Friday !
Tif. Confound your balls, madam ; they make foot-halh of my money,
while you dance away all that I am worth \ A pretty time to give a ball
when you know that I am on the very brink of bankruptcy I
Mrs. Tif. So much the greater reason that nobody should suspect your
circumstances, or you would lose your credit at once. Just at this crisis a
ball is absolutely neces^^ary to save your reputation ! There is Mrs. Adolphus
Dashaway — she gave the most splendid fete of the season — and I hear on
very good authority that her husband has not paid his baker's bill in three
months. Then there was Mrs. Honey wood
Tif. Gave a ball the night before her husband shot himself; perhaps you
wish to drive me to follow his example ? {Crosses to e. l. h.
Mrs. Tif Good gracious ! Mr. Tiffany ! how you talk ! I beg you won't
mention anything of the kind. I consider black the most unbecoming color,
I'm sure I've done all that I could to gratify you. There is that vulgar
old torment, Trueman, who gives one the lie fifty times a day — haven't I
been very civil to him ?
AN^NA CORA MOWATT RITCHIE. 113
Tif. Civil to his wealthy Mrs. Tiffany ! I told you that he was. a rich
old farmer — the early friend of my father — my own benefactor — and that I
had reason to think he might assist me in my present embarrassments.
Your civility was 'bought, and, like most of your own purchases, has yet to
be paid for. [ Grosses to e. n.
Mrs. Tif. And will be, no doubt ! The condescension of a woman of
fashion should command any price. Mr. Trueman is insupportably indeco-
rous ; he has insulted Count Jolimaitre in the most outrageous manner. If
the count was not so deeply interested — so abime with Seraphina, I am sure
he would never honor us by his visits again !
Tif. So much the better — he shall never marry my daughter! — I am
resolved on that. Why, madam, I am told there is in Paris a regular matri-
monial stock company, who fit out indigent dandies for this market. How
do I know but this fellow is one of its creatures, and that he has come her«
to increase its dividends by marrying a fortune ?
Mrs. Tif Nonsense, Mr. Tiffany. The count — the most fashionable
young man in all New York — the intimate friend of all the dukes and lords
in Europe — not marry my daughter? Not permit Seraphina to become a
countess ? Mr. Tiffany, you are out of your senses !
Tif That would not be very wonderful, considering how many years 1
have been united to you, my dear. Modern physicians pronounce lunao7
infectious I
CATHARIKE ANISTE WARMELD.
CATHAREsrE AjosTE Wake WES the daugliter of Major ISTatlia-
niel A. Ware, of I^atchez — ^formerly Secretary of State of the
Mississippi Territory — and of Sarah Ellis, his wife. Her
maternal grandfather, Capt. Charles Percy, of the British
ISTavy, had retired from his profession on half pay, to settle on
a grant of land conferred uj)on him by the crown, during the
brief tenure of the l!^atchez country by England. His estate
lay near Eort Adams, and he was widely known in the region
in- which he dwelt for his liberal hospitality and baronial style
of living, so different from the primitive simplicity around him.
He left behind him large possessions, to which his children
succeeded.
The marriage of Major "Ware with Mrs. Ellis took place
after the death of her father, and about the time of the termina-
tion of the last British war. The pair resided at their country-
seat near J^atchez, during the brief period of their union.
Of two children — the only offspring of this marriage — Catha-
rine was the elder. By the birth of the younger daughter, the
sisters were deprived of a mother's care, and the arduous duty
of rearing and educating them devolved thenceforth solely on
their father.
In order to conduct their education with greater advantage
and facility. Major Ware sold his southern estates, and removed
to Philadelphia. There, in connection with his own instruc-
tion, he obtained masters for the lighter branches and accom-
114
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 115
plishments, still adhering consistently, however, to his favorite
plan of home education. Himself a man of rare scientific
attainments, he was eminently qualified for this self-appointed
task, which his want of other employment, and singula;rly
reserved nature, made valuable to him as a resource against
ennui^ and as an outlet for feeling.
It was a part of his plan to develop the minds of his
children by travel ; and a portion of each year was devoted to
visiting difi'erent points of interest either in the northern or
southern States. These journeys, together with his prejudices
against schools — which necessarily limited the intimate com-
panionship of his daughters to each other — may have had
much to do with the development of the poetic faculty, which
must, however, have been inherent in both, if we accept the
ordinary theory of natural gifts.
The elder daughter, Catharine, was married very young to
Elisha Warfield, a gentleman of Lexington, Kentucky, and a
member of a large and honorable family in that region. They
continued to reside in this place until 1857, when circumstances
induced them to remove to a farm in the vicinity of Louisville,
Kentucky.
The Kfe of Mrs. Warfield has been almost wholly domestic
and social, and uneventful save in its emotional character. Her
literary tastes have found outlet chiefly in her intercourse with
her father and sister, while they lived, and later, through the
medium of two or three chosen papers. The turn of western
society, however graceful and refined it may be, is opposed to
the detail of letters ; yet no people more cordially and appre-
ciatively acknowledge literary prestige, whenever it is well
founded. But the mind that finds its pleasure in literary
pursuits, is scarcely satisfied with a mere recognition of the
dignity of its vocation ; it demands a more near and immediate
sympathy for the full growth and development of its powers.
116 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
The poetic faculty, especially, requires tlie stimulus of higli
mental atmosphere and attrition, to bring it to perfection.
Mrs. Warfield may have felt tlie need of this incentive.
A volume containing the joint productions of herself and
sister, was published in 1843, under the title of " The "Wife of
Leon and Otber Poems, by Two Sisters of the "West." It was
made up of short pieces, written from time to time as the poetic
element stirred, in ebb-tide intervals of social enjoyment, with
out a thought that they would ever come under the public eye
But, urged by literary friends, in whom they had implicit
confidence, and more especially by their father, whom they
could refuse nothing, they reluctantly consented to appear as
authors.
A most favorable reception of this volume by the press
generally, and one or two critical journals in particular,
encouraged them, in 1846, to publish a new collection of their
Writings, entitled " The Indian Chamber and Other Poems."
In this volume is discernible a marked advance in poetic range
and depth, as well as facile and ingenious construction. Both
collections indicate strong powers in reserve, and we naturally
looked to these writers for something still higher in the way of
poetic art. But, as the years rolled on, the younger sister- —
Mrs. Lee — ^passed with her varying lyre into the unseen world,
and Mrs. Warfield, feeling, perhaps, that the utterances of
maturer life need a broader and deeper channel than the tram-
mels of verse afford, has recently "slanted off" into the ocean
of prose — ^if rumor may be credited, is even now busy upon
the pages of a romance, which promises very soon to make its
mark upon the time.
Among the poems of Mrs. Warfield, which we subjoin,
"The Legend of the Indian Chamber" and "The Foe's
Return " are strongly dramatic, «and reveal a tragic vein in
the writer, of which she herself seems only half conscious.
CATHARINE ANNE WARPIELD. Il7
(Since tliis sketch was written, we liave been favored
with the proof-sheets of the first volume of Mrs. Warfield's
promised work.
As one roaming over a goodly domain, whose value he has
already gauged by visible stretches of hill, valley and wood
land, comes suddenly, in the heart of the latter, upon a rocky
height looking far out upon loftier heights, and far down into
wild ravines — so have we come upon these pages of the
" Household of Bouverie." Here is a revelation of our author
beside which the few words we had written of tragic power in
reserve, seem tame and spiritless. We are glad, however, that
such words stand in favor of any degree of insight on our part.
If the last volume of this work bears out the promise of the
first, it is one which " the world will not willingly let die."
We doubt if any such book was ever written before by an
American woman — a work so great in conception and so
masterly in execution.
It is refreshing to read something new in this book-plethoric
age. "The Household of Bouverie" is a story projected from
the writer's own brain and being — a bold, sharp, live, magnetic
creation. The several scenes in the mysterious chamber, the
mterviews between Lilian and Erastus Bouverie, with their
pungent, pre-Raphaelite details, are pictures^ which, having
once burned into the brain, can never be forgotten. A quaint-
ness and originality remind one constantly of Hawthorne, yet
belong wholly to Warfield.
But we have no space for a full analysis of the sharp,
imaginative power, the subtilized diablerie of this large-brained
book. It will have its meed. We are only too happy to
record it here — the master-piece of our author, and a woitliy
criterion of her powers.)
118 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
THE HOUSE OF BOUVERIE.
My grandmother's spacious bed-room, ending in a half octagon, formed a
central projection from the rear of the building. Three doors opened into
this apartment from the sides that joined the house, and presented a stiff
array, separated as they were by wide panels lined with mirrors. The cen-
tral door opened with leaves into a square or rather oblong hall ; the others,
narrower and of simpler construction, gave into small rooms, evidently par-
titioned from the hall for convenience rather than symmetry, since the effect
to the eye must have been far more liberal when the passage swept across
the house, as I knew afterward it had originally done. One of these cham-
bers, some twelve feet square only, yet lofty and well ventilated, had been
fitted up for me with a care and taste that left me nothing to regret, even
when I compared it with the comfort and luxury of my former home. That
which I supposed to correspond with it on the other side (which indeed
the form and size of the mansion made evidently the case), was kept strictly
locked ; and at first I conceived it to be my grandmother's oratory — recall-
ing that of the mistress of Taunton Tower — or study, perhaps, where books
and paintings, sacred to her eye alone, were cautiously concealed, as I had
heard was the custom among the authors and artists of the world.
But my grandmother, I soon discovered, was neither the one nor the
other ; and when I found how simple and even homely were the details of
her every-day life, I descended from my pedestal of fancy, and determined
that this "Blue Beard chamber," so mysterious and inaccessible to me, was
nothing more nor less than a shy woman's dressing-room. A deep reticence
of nature did indeed underlie^ in a very remarkable degree, the sparkling
cordiality of my grandmother's manner. You stumbled on this constitutional
or habitual reserve, accidentally som'etimes, as you might do on a stone hid
in a bed of flowers, and with something of the same sharp, sudden anguish ;
but I am digressing to speak of this now. I wish to give at once, for reasons
that will be plainer hereafter, as correct an idea as I know how to convey
^ by words, of the construction of the house of Bouverie.
The central building, as seen from without, built as it was of the dun-
colored sandstone common to that region, consisted of two stories sur-
mounted by a circular dome or cupola. A glitter on the roof of this super-
structure, which was observable at some distance from the mansion, pointed
to the idea of a skylight or glass framework, which might in the beginning
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 119
have lit the lower as well as the upper hall, if such indeed existed. No
evidence that an upper floor formed any portion of the house was afforded
by its internal construction ; it contained no stairway, and the circular hall
of entrance was ceiled over, so as to shut out any connection with that
which might have been supposed to lie above it.
The house was built in the outline of a disproportioned cross, in which
the small square vestibule in front, my grandmother's projecting chamber in
the rear, and the two long wings, containing severally the gentlemen's apart-
ments and accommodations and offices for servants, represented the four
limbs. The main building contained only, as far as the eye could see within,
the central circular hall to which I have already referred, and one large
room on either hand opening from this rotunda, and made square, or rather
oblong, by means of triangular closets. The lateral hall, with its divided
chambers, completed the quadrangle.
I understood later how it was that after her husband's death — one of
violence and horror it was whispered — my grandmother had cut oif all
communication with those upper rooms which he had chiefly inhabited,
associated in her mind as they were with bloodshed and self-slaughter ; and
how, as the dark legend crept stealthily around, that night after night he
might still be heard walking their floors, and had even been seen descending
the spiral stairs that linked one circular hall with the other, while the moon
shone down through the great skylight, revealing to the startled watchers
his ghastly lineaments and spectral form — she had, in the desperation of her
fear and agony, sealed up forever those haunted and accursed chambers.
For this purpose the stairway had been removed, and the space between the
two halls floored and ceiled. This was done with an expedition that made
food for conjecture in the neighborhood, having its origin, doubtless, in the
almost frenzied terror of her own sensations, that caused her to spare neither
expense nor urgency to have her alterations executed with dispatch. The
workmen who performed this task were summoned from a distant town, and
spoke in a foreign tongue. They came and went like shadows ; and in this
manner she evaded, as much as possible, the neighborhood gossip and
espionage which must otherwise have so annoyed her in her crusbed condi-
tion. For, at the time all this was done, my grandfather's fearful death was
fecent ; and the same artisans who removed the stairs, and sealed away from
Bight and access those abhorred upper apartments, placed the simple marble,
obelisk which bore his name, above his grave in the cedar grove.
A great lamp swung in the centre of that circular hall now, where the
120 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
snnlight and moonlight had once streamed freely down from the transparent
roof; and the restless ghost might walk forever in those large dim chambers,
with their nailed-up windows, and disused and moldering furniture, and dis-
quiet no one.
" Not one article was touched or brought away. Miss Lilian, that ever
belonged to Am," added my informant in low whispered tones, the old
demure, and yet gossiping woman who assisted at my toilet, and who had
lived with my grandmother and cared for her since her birth ; " not one
article, lest a curse might cleave to it and fall on us ; and stUl he may be heard
at times — don't be frightened. Miss Lilian! — walking, walking, the livelong
night, the livelong day even, as though no rest were granted him in the
other world, who took no rest in this."
I had hidden my face on Dame Bianca's arm as she proceeded in her
vague narration, thrilled by a momentary terror. Now I looked up and was
annoyed by the expression of her countenance as my sudden glance fell upon
it. She seemed to be enjoying the emotion with which she had inspired me,
and a furtive and half-suppressed smile lurked on her lips and in her eyes
that shook my confidence in the sincerity of her representations,
" She is trying to fool me," I thought, " with this ghost-story, and to
make a coward of me ; but I Tcnow there is nothing of the kind."
And nerved by this sudden conviction, I proceeded to question her with
more coolness and sagacity than she could have expected from one evidently
80 impressed with her narration a moment before.
"What made my grandfather so restless, Dame Bianca?" I asked. "Was
he unhappy and wicked, or only busy?"
"All, child, all! wretched enough, I daresay, when he stopped to think
of his misdeeds — and busy always as any working-bee in summer-time. Busy
with hand and brain, with pen and sword, with drug and pistol, reading
and thinking, plotting and contriving ; and trampling over every one that
stood in his way, without fear or mercy. But he was a great gentleman
after all, more like a prince than a common man it appeared to me, and so
grand in his ways, that no man could ever take a liberty with him, not even
the old master, Ursa Bouverie, that had no respect for any one else, and
trod on human feelings as a horse treads on grass. Old ' Ursa Major,' they
call him hereabouts ; but I never could see the sense of putting liis title last;
'Major Ursa' would have sounded better, I think. Miss Lilian?"
"Why, that means the great bear, Bianca," I said, laughing lieartily at
the conceit, and entirely roused from the horrors of her narrative ; forget-
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 121
ting, too, in my amusement, the pique her expression of triumph had occa-
sioned me when she felt sure of my credulity. " An excellent title, I have
no doubt, for the cross old man — Ursa ! what a funny name for a Christ-
ian!"
"He was no Christian, Miss Lilian," she said, gravely; "but a dreadful
old heathen as the Lord ever permitted to live ! I never knew how it was
that your grandfather crept into his feelings so toward the last, unless it
was" — and she hesitated, then digressed abruptly. "'She shall have a
home of her own, if my act can give it to her,' I heard him say one night
about a week before he died, when your grandfather — his nephcAV, you
know, child, he was — was talking with hirn. about making his will in the
library, and he slammed his hand down just so on the table till it shook
again ! ' Shall I insert the clause now, uncle ?' I heard"''Mr. Erastus Bouverie
say in his soft, sweet tones, more like trickling water or falling silver than
any other sound I ever heard. ' Or shall it be done later ?'
" ' You need not trouble yourself about it at all, Erastus,' the old man
answered ; ' after all your objections, it might give you too much pain ; or,
maybe, you might accidentally leave a flaw !' and old 'Ursa Major' laughed
long and loud."
" Oh, Bianca, that was very insulting to say to his nephew, I think."
" Not for him. Miss Lilian, who never had a civil word for any one ex-
cept Miss Camilla ; but her he fairly worshipped. Anyway, the look he got
that night from Mr. Erastus would have killed any one else outright. Few
people could stand before your gran-^lfather's eyes, I tell you, my child; but
he said nothing on this occasion, but went on writing. I have heard them
say that knew his disposition best, that he never justilied himself in any way
but owe."
" And that ojie, Bianca?"
" Jfever mind. Miss Lilian, what that was, it was a dreadful way at the
best ; but as I was saying, he kept on writing in silence. The old man did
not live long afterward ; he died suddenly, you know, but he did not forget
to add the clause, and that was the way your grandmother came to own
Bouverie."
" But where were you all the time, Bianca, to see and hear so much ?
Were you hid away to spy and to listen, Bianca ? Oh, I hope not, for the
credit of our house."
" Busy in the next room, child, and the door ajar between ; but if yon
hold such suspicions, you may learn the rest for yourself." And the injured
122 ' WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
diiine drew up lier slight, erect figure in an attitude tliat indicated fixed
resolution ; nor could I liope to learn from any other source the unfinished
history I burned to know.
A little scene had been enacted before this conversation occurred with
Bianca, which taught me the necessity of self-control in the household of
Bouverie, both as to question and remark. I could not venture, after this,
to inquire of any member of the family concerning my grandfather's fate or
the events of his life, in view of the lesson that my own indiscretion had
taught me.
It was on the day after my arrival that, sitting at the supper-table, dur-
ing a long pause in the conversation, and while my grandmother was
especially engaged with her colfee-urn, I was suddenly shaken by one of
those unseasonable fits of laughter common to excitable children.
" What amuses you, Lilian?" asked Dr. QuintU. "Come, give us your
merry thought, and we will pluck it together."
" Oh, Dr. Quintil, I was only thinking how fanny it was — and I never
thought of it until this minute, which makes it funnier still — that my uncle
Jasper has never spoken one word to me since I came to Bouverie ! Not
one word^ Mister Jasper, have you said to your niece since she came to live
with you, either for good or for bad," and I shook my finger playfully at
him across the table.
He gazed at me a moment earnestly, and then sufiered his forehead to
droop into his hands. Had I oifended him? I looked anxiously at Dr.
Quintil; he, too, was pale and grave, and averted his eyes from mine.
My grandmother alone retained her self-possession.
"My child," she said, "in this house, above all others, learn to be
discreet. It is our misfortune to be an afflicted household — Jasper has never
spokeny
I dropped the. untasted morsel, and, in a passion of grief and mortification,
I slid from the table, and lay with my face on the floor. I was raised by
kindly hands. Jasper held me in his arms.
"Oh, what have I done!" I said; "I did not know — indeed I did not
know — that one might hear, and still be dumb. Poor Uncle Jasper ! Can
you forgive me ?"
Words never spoke as his eyes spoke to me then. I have since believed
that in the spirit-world there will be no need of speech, but that light,
shining from each heavenly visage, shall reveal whatever the immortal
essence seeks to. communicate, and words be put away with other bonds of
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 123
flesh. He held me to his bosom long, for my feelings, when once, vividly-
aroused, were not easily consoled to quiet again ; and they told me that on
that home of peace I sobbed myself to rest.
Jasper — my Jasper — from that hour I loved thee as entirely as I shall
ever do when we meet at the feet of God !
GENIUS.
Jasper usually sat in the same room in which I was taught, pursuing his
separate studies, and entirely engrossed by the volumes he pored over, to the
exclusion of voices and other disturbing causes. He had, indeed, that power
of application in an uncommon degree, which, by some French authors, Mon-
tesquieu, I believe, has been used as a definition of genius. If the meaning
be extended so as to cover the ground of the application of knowledge after
its acquirement — the result of application of mind — to all occasions of life,
this definition may be found to possess merit, and even originality, and to
answer as well as most that have been accepted as expositions of that Protean
gift of which Prometheus was the antique type.
At noon, when study hours were over for the day, I sought my grand-
mother's chamber, and found her usually seated at her work by the large
window I have before described ; while the little repast of fruit, or cake, or
conserves, she never forgot to provide for me, was placed on the table hj her
side. "When I had partaken of this, I was free to go, to ride my pony, to
walk, to swing, and gather flowers in the fine season ; or in winter, to
exercise in the basement below, kept warm for the benefit nf the flowering
plants it sheltered, or to pore over the volumed lore of the library, until our
late dinner hour arrived, or to play and sing at my piano, unquestioned and
unnoticed ; for my grandmother knew better than most persons, how impor-
tant to the growth and dignity of a child's character, is a certain freedom of
action and solitary self-reliance.
I still look back to those lonely hours, as the basis of much that is strong
and resolute in my character, and as the promoters, if not originators, of
that poetic faculty which, however limited in its results, has been my chief
comfort and resource in life — a faculty I would not surrender for Victoria's
crown, were I obliged to fill its place with commonplace and inanity, and
"which, more than all else, has reconciled me to life, and assured me of the
certainty of a glorious immortality.
A great orator has lately in his eulogium of the mo^ distinguished states-
124 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
man of any age, in Lis zeal for those qualities wMcli peculiarly appertain to the
character of the august subject of his debate, levelled cold and cruel blows at
the peculiar organization to which we give the name of "genius." When
God takes back his gift of flowers, limits sunshine, wipes out the rainbow,
dashes from the shell and gem their lustre, and from the bird the hues of his
glorious plumage, replacing these with cold, utilitarian coloring ; when the
love of the beautiful — the germ of all poetic power — ceases to lift the human
heart to Him who adorned the world with such exquisite consideration for
this master passion of his noblest creatures — including, as it does, love,
heroism, religion, glory, — then, and not until then^ shall I believe that genius
is superfluous ; and that in the eyes of the Creator it is of little or no avail !
Dr. Kane, sailing on the lonely arctic seas, renders meet tribute to the
comfort that genius gives him ; I use the word advisedly !
" None," says he, " who have not read the poems of Tennyson, under
circumstances of isolation like those that surrounded me, can form any idea
of the consolation to be derived from their perusal."
These are not his exact words — I do not own these volumes — but any one
can find the passage I refer to, with such a clew. Following out the impulse
of his gratitude, he calls by the name of his favorite poet, the wondrous
column of green basalt that stands forth as if made by the hand of human
art, bare and terrific even in its strange solitary grandeur, from the cold,
grey rocks around it, and looms above the lonely glassy ocean of that Arctic
zone. This he calls "Tennyson's Monument." "What prouder tribute has
poet ever received ?
Dear as were those solitary hours to me, and life-giving as they proved
themselves, the tendency of my nature was essentially social and loyal ; and,
had I been permitted to do so, I would have attached myself warmly and
entirely to my grandmother's society, and even service. But, while with
one hand she drew me to her, with the other she put me away — gently, but
no less decidedly^
Her conversation was especially delightful to me — so animated, so
varied, so natural, so full of detail, that it was like reading a pleasant book
to listen to it. One is said, I know, oftener in derision than in praise, to
"talk like a book;" but this is a prejudice derived from old times, when
books were oftenest prating and pedantic oracles. Who would not like to
hear such conversation daily, as we meet with in the pages of many modern
novels ? Terse, sparkling, and graphic illustrations of nature itself, compared
to which all ancient dialogues seem flat and affected !
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 125
EELIGIOIT.
Temperament has, after all, more to do with religion than theologians
are willing to acknowledge, and there certainly was in my very veins some
principle antagonistic in its nature to Catholicism. I Avas made, I think, of
those elements from which new churches, new forms of government have
sprung. ' It was natural to me to investigate motives, and demand reasons
for action ; and if I was a poor logician, I was, at all events, no sophist, no
self-deluder ; what I believed was a part of my own being.
I have heard people talk of choosing a religion, as they would select a
garment, and marvelled at the fallacy ! Oh, who can choose a conviction ;
or who would not, if this were possible, believe in the comforting doctrines
of the universalist or the epicurean ?
Xo ! religion is made of sterner stuff! We cannot banish or deny the
presence of evil ; it is here — we can only contend against it, with what
limited power we have, and what divine assistance we receive. "We cannot
shut out the bitter belief in the vast inequality of human lots, prate as
philosophers may of compensation on earth ; nor fail to perceive the absence
of all justice in the visible dispensations of Providence. Else would no vir-
tuous man go down in the fiery sea of sorrow and adversity ; else would no
icy-hearted villain prosper! That these things are, none can deny— that
noble lives are failures, that base ones are crowned with success ; let Kossuth
— let Louis I^apoleon testify, for want of fitter examples, known to all men !
But we need not stop with public characters like these. In every sphere of
life there are innumerable instances of this kind, and when we try to per-
suade ourselves that there is no truth in the dark doctrines of fate and
election, let us reflect on these manifest inconsistencies, before our daily
eyes.
Yet who wants to believe in these doctrines — who would incline to it if
it were possible to waive them away by any process of human reasoning or
self-deception ! And why should any belief, after all, however gloomy and
oppressive in its tendency, make us, for one moment, falter in our faith in,
and perfect love for God ?
For the future is in his hand of which we know nothing now, and the
instinct is in all hearts, to trust in its mighty developments, its compensa-
tions, its unerring fidelity to, and correspondence with the past, so that they
may be said to represent the two scales of a balance — one before us, with its
126 WOMEN OF THE SOU^TH.
heavy and uncompreliensive measure of good or ill — the other with its
■unseen freight far in eternity.
Yet happy those who, closing their eyes on its complicated inconsistency,
and seeing its sublime comfort, and loving charity alone, bow down and
worship at the foot of the Catholic cross ! Happy those who deem that sin
can be forgiven by proxy, and the gates of heaven entered by death-bed
repentance ! These are the beings whom the rapture of heaven possesses
even on earth, and who bear most often, lightly the burden of sin and sorrow
so crushing to the sterner thinkers. Nature had never intended me to be
one of these.
THE SECEET CHAMBER AND ITS OCCUPANT.
In the centre of the room stood a ponderous rosewood bedstead, very
dark from age, and shaped like a lengthened throne, and so placed as to give
its inmate whatever advantage of light and air existed in that dusky
atmosphere.
He lay on his snow-white bed, propped with pillows scarce paler than
himself, that remarkable man, whose face seemed to have become familiar to
me in one brief gaze of terror and mystery. He was sleeping when my
grandmother led me to his couch, and with noiseless step and lifted finger
impressed on me the necessity of silen-e — sleeping the tranquil sleep of ill-
ness merged into debility.
"Dr. Quintil pronounces this a saving slumber," she whispered, "if not
interrupted 5 yet if any observable change occurs during its continuance you
must not hesitate to call him. He lies at present on the sofa in the opposite
room, having watched all night; observe our patient closely, Lilian; I con-
fide all to you!"
She withdrew, and I sat close by his side, watching a sleep that closely
simulated that of death itself — so profound, so tranquil was it — and poring
on his face, as though it were a book opened before me. An expression of
tender repose (if I may so express it) lingered over the thin, straight fea-
tures, almost transparent from disease.
The grey hair, singularly indicative of strength and vitality, and bearing
unmistakable traces of its original color, lay loose and wavy on the pillow.
Long as it had seemed before, it had probably grown to an unusual length
during his sickness, and now imparted an almost womanish character to Lis
face and head.
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 127
III.- sionder and elegantly formed hands were closed lightly on his breast,
as those of the dead are often placed. A white napkin lay at his side, folded
and glossy ; but streaked and dappled with blood fresh from his bleeding
lungs — a few Strombio roses were thrown carelessly by it, as if dropped
from nerveless fingers.
Beside him, on a small table, was a flask of ice- water, a goblet of antique
form, some grapes on a plateau of fine china, and a vial of pyramidal shape,
filled with a liquid of such brilliant amber-color, that it seemed almost to
diifuse rays of light around it.
During that long watch, my eyes became frequently riveted on this vial,
and attracted by its lambent lustre, I raised it between them and the light,
so as to scrutinize the contents, I saw with an almost fascinated interest
what appeared to be a hair of gold, waving to and fro in the liquid like
a miniature serpent. Xow rising to the top in spiral lines, as if trying to
escape from its confinement — then collapsing in a ring to the bottom of the
wide-based vial.
On the bottle a label was pasted, on which was inscribed in small^" cleat
Italian characters, the " elixir of goldy This, then, was that marvellous
remedy, of which I had recently heard, for the first time, with more of inte^
rest than faith I must confess ! Here, then, was the realization of what had
appeared to me but a mere fable !
A gentleman with whom we had met in travelling, a peculiar and strik-
ing person, whose name and mien indicated a foreign origin, had told Dr.
Quintil a story in my presence, illustrative of the immediate efficacy of this
medicine.
A child lay dying in a peasant's house, in which a horseman soug-ht tem-
porary refuge from the storm which raged without. Hope was over, and
the death-struggle approached, the eyes were glazed and half-rolled back in
their orbits — cold dew stood on the clammy face, the power of speech, of
deglutition itself was gone, when the stranger asked permission to pour a
few drops from a small vial he drew from his bosom, into the parted lips of
the child. The request was granted, and at short intervals he was allowed
to repeat the experiment.
The subtle drug seemed to insinuate itself into the system without the
assistance of the epiglottis ; but, for a tiiiie, exerted little opposing influence
.Tj;ainst the power of the conqueror. lie described the marvellous and sud-
den change' that at last occurred — the returning hues of life, the renewed
intelligence of the eye, the strength restored as if by magic. In an hour
128 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
later tlie child sat up in. bed and called for food, and the next day rose to it8
feet convalescent ! Such was the tale.
Something in the graphic manner of the narrator left the impression on
my mind, that he himself was the benefactor thus referred to, and I smiled
at the faith the empiric lent to the work of his own hands — doubting not
for a moment, that the recovery he described had taken place from natural
causes.
And now my incredulity seemed reasonably confirmed. Here was a
dying man (he certainly seemed so to me) with this wondrous yet unavailing
remedy in reach !
Yet what a radiantly beautiful fluid it was !
Had it been called "essence of sunshine," it would not have surprised
me, for inherent radiance it certainly seemed to contain. I had just time to
set the vial down, which I had raised between my vision and the line of light
that came through the slightly opened door, when he awoke, coughing
violently and fixed his glittering eyes full on my face.
Aroused by the shrill summons, or perhaps already watching for such a
signal. Dr. Quintil came almost instantly to his assistance, and sustained him
in his arms ; at the same time whispering to me to withdraw from the cham-
ber, and remain without while the paroxysm lasted.
Fabius had arranged my breakfast in the hall, on that great round table,
from which books and papers were now cleared away, that stood beneath
the skylight, and it was truly acceptable, for the day was on the tide, and I
had not tasted food since the previous evening ; I was half famished ; yet I
had hardly time to swallow a few mouthfuls, and drink my coffee, when
jDr. Quintil called me from within.
I returned greatly agitated. He was awake ; he would speak to me.
He, my mother''s father ! It was like the recognition of spirits in another
world — ineffable, overpowering.
I advanced to the foot of the bed, and stood thrilled, yet mutely before
him.
"Come nearer, my love," he said, extending one long, thin hand to me,
that fell in the next instant almost lifeless beside him. " N'earer, that I may
discern your features distinctly. Lilian, the child of Morna," he murmured,
"the daughter of my child!"
"Even so, grandfather," I said, as solemnly as ever a devotee gave back
" Amen " to prayer and kneeling. I bowed my head on his nerveless hand,
and my nature took on her new allegiance.
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 129
The very sound of his voice — clear, sweet, slightly tremulous at times,
infinitely pathetic in its quality — vibrated through my whole being, as no
sound, ■whether of speech or music, had ever done before. I felt within me
then the power, won from the electric shock, of the clashing chains of kin-
dred in our veins ; perchance to serve him faithfully from that hour with
any sacrifice that he might see fit to demand, or that I might find it possible
to make.
Yet, why was this? Others as nearly related to me had awakened no
parallel enthusiasm in my soul. I have done wrong perhaps in thinking that
it was the power of blood that stirred me thus. Was it not rather some fine
magnetic influence totally independent of mere relationship, that rendered
every faculty of my being as responsive to his will as the keys of the lute to
the touch of the master player ?
I know not how long I continued kneeling and praying silently beside
Mm — if prayer might be called that almost unformed communing of my soul
with God — more a mood than an utterance. He was now forbidden to
speak ; yet when I arose and stood beside him again, his beaming eye and
smile were more eloquent than words. They seemed to say :
" "Welcome, my love, to this solitary life of mine, art thou, as morning to
the sleepless, or showers to the sear grass. Henceforth thy being shall be
blended with my own, and the shadow that envelops me fall over thee also.
even as from thy young existence, some light and joy shall gild the clouds
of mine. For of this nature is the mighty and inscrutable bond of
blood."
Such, to my excited imagination, seemed the meaning, his mute but qui-
vering features sought to convey ; such the impression my mind received
from their expression — never to leave it more.
Yet again I question, why was this?
ELIXIR OF GOLD AiTD BLOOD.
He held my wrists in his grasp, silently for a time. I felt that he was
counting my pulses.
"There is health enough in these young veins," he said, "to justify mo
in making the request I have sent for you to prefer. The rich life-blood
abounds here even to superfluity. Lilian, you have blood, and to spare."
"Blood, grandfather!" I repeated, struggling slightly to withdraw my
9
130 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
arm. "You do not want my blood, I hope? Is he insane, after all?" was
the rapid thought that swept through me, " and is this a part of the past, so
long esteemed a crime, mere madness at last ?"
He relinquished his hold immediately, and said, with evident mortifica-
tion : " You surely do not think I mean to harm you, Lilian ?"
I stood before him with my head east down, as the guilty stand before
their accusers.
" ]^o, no indeed," I murmured, " I know you would not harm me, unless
— ^unless "
"Unless I were mad, Lilian ; is that what you would say?" he asked, stiU
surveying me with his piercing, reproachful eyes ; then waiting a moment
for a reply, which never came, he added, " you are right there ; but I am
not mad — ^have absolutely no capacity for madness, child. Listen, I only
ask you for one cup of that generous blood, that flowed from my veins in the
beginning."
" This is a strange fancy of yours, grandfather — a horrible fancy. Do you
drink blood ? Are you a vampire ?" I tried to smile, but shuddered in the
attempt. "I must not seem afraid," I thought, "for if this be mania, such
evidence would increase it; and yet how canFabius seem so unconcerned,
if he meditates any horrible thing? Perhaps they are going to unite and
sacrifice me."
In spite of my better resolution, I felt myself trembling at the thought of
playing the part of an unwilling Iphigenia. Fortunately, this passed
unobserved.
"Hear me dispassionately," he said; "then decide as you will. I ask
your assistance in the preparation of a remedy, on which my feeble life
depends. I have been in the habit of drawing from my own veins, or those
of Fabius, the required amount of fluid to complete my preparation ; but since
my long illness, my strength has failed. His, too, declines, and unless the
properties of perfect health be found in the blood thus used, it is of little or
no avail. To-day I threw three hundred sovereigns, the last of my treasure,
in the crucibles. All this will be wasted, unless I obtain the necessary
ingredient wherewith to divide the smoldering mass from the ethereal spirit
that makes the elixir."
"Why not usesthe blood of a lamb, or of a goat, grandfather; or beef's
blood, as I have heard they do in sugar refineries ? These can be easily pro-
cured, and human nature spared the horror of such an experiment."
"Because the chemical aflBnities are all wanting in these, that success
CATHARINE ANNE WAKFIELD. 131
depends on ; but, Lilian, I will not urge you further ; I will not ask again,
even to save my own life, for a gill of the blood I gave you."
I was nerved to sudden determination by these words.
"Be sure you take no other, grandfather," I said, hazarding a feeble jest
to raise my own courage. "Spare my De Oourcy blood, I implore you;"
and, baring my arm, I stretched it forth, and turned away.
A small porcelain urn was brought forward, and Fabius breathed a vein
with a dexterity that manifested practice. I had just begun to feel slightly
faint and giddy, when my grandfather staunched the orifice, and bound my
arm himself with bandages, in readiness for the occasion ; first touching the
wounded vein with a liquid which removed soreness from the arm, and
prevented all subsequent inconvenience.
"Aye, Lilian, this will do," he said; "this young and ruddy blood is
what I needed. Do you know, child, that the time is not far distant when
lie who can affbrd to purchase such relays for his veins weekly, or even
monthly, may put off death indefinitely ? The surgeon will let young blood
into the old man's veins then, as easily as the barber trims his beard now,
and it will be a part of the received hygeian system to do this, indispensable
even to the toilet of every sexagenarian." ,
He held the all but transparent cup between his eyes and the brilliant
lamps. "It is perfect," continued he, "every globule round as a drop of
rain. I fear I have not spared your De Courcy blood, as you requested, how-
ever. I think I discern a mixture ; but come, you shall see the charm, work.
Medea was a bungler compared with Erastus Bouverie !"
He led me to the crucible, red hot over its charcoal furnace, and, lifting
the lid, showed me the dull, yellow, molten mass within,
" Now look, Lilian."
He took from the marble slab, or counter, as I have elsewhere called it,
a vial of white liquid, which, when opened, emitted the odoriferous, and, to
me, grateful and reviving smell of almonds, and bending over the crucible,
poured in carefully about half the contents of the bottle, quickly replacing
the close-fitting glass stopper.
Instantly the seething mass stood still, a few large bubbles rose, flashed,
dispersed, and a dull violet flame seemed to flit and flicker over the surface.
"Now, Lilian, all is ready. Look attentively and behold the crisis!"
His face was rigid as steel as he dashed in the blood.
The flame died out, the whole mass seemed to shudder and recoil ; then
separate as instantaneously as I have seen the curd and whey of milk divide
132 WOMEN OF TUE SOUTH.
Tmder the action of an acid, or, to use a grandiose comparison, as earth and
sea might have divided in the beginning of time. A mass .of substance was
precipitated to the bottom of the crucible, and oh, wondrous vision! in the
clear, amber-colored fluid above, myriads of tiny serpents of flashing light
seemed gliding, quivering, coiling in ring after ring, and springing in spiral
movements to the surface !
" It is the vital principle at work," he said, in suppressed tones, " electri-
fying the duller agent. The combination will be more than usually perfect.
The blood of genius works weU ! Fabius, extinguish the fires." His voice
was low and husky.
He spoke no more until this was done; then steadily and slowly, and
with every nerve strained to its fullest tension in the anxiety of the moment
— for much depended on the accuracy of this movement — he poured into a
silver bowl the wonderful elixir, preparatory to sealing it in crystal vials.
LEGEl^'D OF THE INDIAN" CHAMBER.
PAET FIE8T.
" Basil ! set my house in order,
For, when I return to-day,
I shall bring with me a stranger.
Tarrying on his homeward way.
Open fling the Indian Ohambee,
And the arras free from mold ;
There array a goodly banquet,
Such as cheered my sires of old ;
When, from chase or war returning,
Dukes and princes of my line,
From the evening till the morning,
Filled the cup and drained the wine."
" Master, in thy lordly castle
There are many halls of pride.
Where no damps the walls encumber —
Where no spells of gloom abide.
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 133
In the gallery of the Titans,
In the hall of Count Lothaire,
In the grand saloon of columns,
Better had ye banquet there.
But the dreary Indian Chamber,
Oh ! bethink you, master mine —
There have slept, in mortal slumber,
All the princes of your line.
* There the mourners ever gather,
Forth to bear the noble dead-
There you saw your stately father.
And your noble brother laid ;
There, save in these times of anguish,
Never, since my life began,
■ Entered in a ray of sunlight.
Or the step of mortal man.
And the sounds of mystic meaning —
Master ! need I speak of these ? —
Which from that lone eastern chamber
Meet the ear — the spirit freeze!"-
With a brow of haughty pallor.
Straight the' Baron turned away,
In a scornful accent saying,
"'Tis my mandate, slave ! obey."
Then in haste, with gloomy aspect,
Forth he went upon his steed,
Rushing headlong on his pathway.
Like an evil spirit freed.
And with sad and stricken spirit,
Basil watched his lord depart,
While a dark and evil omen.
Hearse-like, pressed upon his heart.
Long he lingered at the portal.
Bound as with a gloomy dream ;
Long he looked upon the landscape,
Which before him ceased to seem ;
134 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Then, with low and prayerful mutterings,
Shaking oft his tresses grey,
Clasping oft his withered fingers,
Basil went npon his way.
Passed he up the ancient stairway,
Groped he through the echoing aisle,
Where, to seek the olden chapel.
Oft had passed a kingly file.
Climbed he the remotest turret
Of that castle grand and vast,
And before the Indian Chamber
Wearily he paused at last ;
Yes, a moment there he faltered,
He who oft had stood the shock
Of the hottest, fiercest battle.
Firm as a primeval rock.
On the bolt his fingers trembled,
Scarcely could their strength unclose
The immense and ponderous fastening,
Eusted by its long repose.
Yet a moment — yet a moment.
Ere the door was open flung.
Paused the old and awe-struck Basil,
Fervent aves on his tongue.
As if Heaven his prayer had answered,
Peace and comfort round him stole,
And a calm and lofty courage
Nerved his hand and filled his soul.
With a slight, yet sudden effort.
Back the oaken door he threw,
And upon the darkened threshold
Stood the fearful place to view.
Dark and dreary was that chamber.
Which in lengthened gloom appeared.
With its dark and mystic arras,
Wrought in svmbols wild and weird.
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 135
Life-like were the gorgeous figures,
Giant-like they seemed to loom
In the dim, imperfect twilight
Of that long-forsaken room.
"Warily the old man entered —
With a solemn step he trod
Through the drear and dark apartment,
Trusting to his Father's God.
In the ample hearth he kindled
Brands that, in departed days,
Quenched and blackened, had been left there —
Strange and ghostly seemed their bls-^e.
And upon the marble table
Eanged the regal store of plate.
And arrayed the goodly banquet,
As became his master's state :
Urn and vase and chalice brimming
"With the floods of ruby wine,
As beseemed the dukes and princes
Of that mighty Forman line.
Then he silently betook him
To his first appointed task —
"Wiping from the ancient arras
Many a spot of mold and mask.
But the dark and loathing horror.
It befits me not to speak,
"Which, while stUl his task pursuing.
Shook his hand, and blanched his cheek ;
For he could not but remember
How, in long departed years,
"Woven was that wondrous fabric
By the spells of Indian seers.
"Wrought with themes of Hindoo story,
Life-like, in their coloring bold,
Yemen's fall, and "Vishnu's glory,
"Was that arras quaint and old ;
WOMEN" OF THE SOUTH.
Jnggemant's remorseless chariot,
Funeral pyre, and temple proud,
Bungalow, and Rajah's palace,
With their strange and motley crowd ;
Jungle, low, and flower-crowned river,
Dancing girls, with anklets bright ;
These, like gorgeous dreams of fever,
Crowded on the gazer's sight.
And the long and twisting serpents,
And the tigers crouching, grim,
Seemed the dark and fearful guardians
Of that Indian Chamber dim.
To the simple, earnest spirit
Of the old and faithful man,
For a Christian hand to touch them,
Was to merit Christian ban.
Saint and martyr inly calling,
Still he wrought his master's will.
When a terror more appalling,
Caused his very veins to chill.
In that dreary Indian Chamber,
Strangely grand and desolate.
With its long and hearse-like hangings,
Stood a plumed bed of state.
Closed around with solemn mystery
As a kingly purple pall.
High it towered, a silent history
Of departed funeral.
And with eyes amazed — distended
By their dread and spell-bound look —
Basil gazed in stony horror,
Lo ! the trailing curtains shook !
And a groan of hollow anguish
From the close-drawn hangings broke,
As if one for ages sleeping
Suddenly to torture woke —
^
CATHARIXE ANNE WAREIELD. 137
God of terror ! slowly parted
By a wan and spectral hand,
Back were drawn the purple curtains —
Back, as with a spirit wand.
And a face of ghostly beauty,
With its dark and streaming hair,
And its eyes of ghoul-like brightness,
Seemed upon his sense to glare.
How in that terrific moment
Basil's senses kept their throne.
Is alone to God and angels
In its wondrous mystery known.
How he gathered faith and firmness
To uplift his aged hand.
And address the disembodied,
Man may never understand.
Save that in the ghostly features
Still a semblance he descried,
To the high and lovely lady,
Who had been his master's bride.
" In the name of God the Father,
In the name of God the Son,
In the name of all good angels.
Speak to me unearthly one.
Answer Avhy, from wave returning.
Meanest thou in anguish here;
Surely for some holy purpose
Thou art sufi"ered to appear.
If for evil, I defy thee.
By the cross upon my breast,
By my faith in life eternal.
And my yearning hope for rest."
Then with moveless lips the Phantom
Spake in low and hollow tones.
As if shaped to words and meaning
Were the night-wind's hollow moans.
138 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" Basil ! darkly was I murdered
Sailing on the Eiver Ehine,
By thy harsh and ruthless master,
Last of an illustrious line.
False the tale his lips have uttered,
False the tears his eyes have shed—
I was hurled upon the water
"With the marks of murder red.
" Basil ! thou art good and faithful.
Thee I charge, by hopes divine,
With a hundred chanted masses,
Shrive my soul by Mary's shrine.
None shall stay thy holy fervor.
None forbid the sacred rite ;
For thy master's life is destined
To expire in crime to-night."
Fixed in awe, the aged Basil
Gazing on the spectre stood ;
But not with the waning Phantom
Passed away his icy mood.
Long in that drear Indian Chamber,
Like a form of sculptured stone,
Kept the old and awe-struck servant,
Yigil terrible and lone ;
Till the sound of coming footsteps.
And of voices loud and clear,
And of ringing spur and sabre,
Smote upon his spell-bound ear.
And in haste the door was opened,
And with high and plumed crest
Entered in the noble Baron
Ushering in a foreign guest.
" Basil ! all is dark and sombre,
Cast fresh fagots on the hearth,
And illume the silver sconces
To preside above our mirth.
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 139
Let the chamber glow like sunlight ;
111 this gloom befits our glee."
Then loud laughed the stately Baron,
Seldom, seldom, so laughed he.
'Twas a sound that chilled with terror
All that knew his nature well :
'Twas the Heaven's electric flashing
Ere the bolt of lightning fell.
PAET SECOND.
Now the chamber glowed like sunlight —
Strange and wondrous in that glare,
Was the weird and ancient arras,
"Were the figures woven there ;
"Wavering with the flickering torches
Seemed the motley multitude ;
Twisting serpent, rolling chariot,
All with ghostly life imbued.
Crouching tiger — hideous idol —
All that grand and splendid masque,
Mixture strange of truth and fable,
As in sunshine seemed to bask.
"Long have I sojourned in India,"
Thus the lofty stranger said ; ,
" There, for wealth and idle treasure,
Health and youth and blood I shed.
And I feel like one who dreameth,
As I on these wails survey,
All those objects so familiar.
Year by year and day by day."
All in strange and blended splendor.
Like a vision of the night —
^N'ever yet on earthly fabric
Glowed a scene so rich and briarht.
140 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
Fixed upon the spell-wrought arras
"Was the Eastern stranger's gaze ;
"With his head and heart averted,
There he dreamed of other days.
"When, with eyes of watchful terror,
Basil saw his master glide,
And within the golden chalice
Brimming with its purple tide,
"With a stealthy, glancing motion,
As a conjurer works his spell.
Oast a drop of ruby liquid
From a tiny rose-lipped shell,
" Hither turn, thou Eastern dreamer,
Pledge me in this golden cup ;
'Tis our old and feudal custon.
He who tastes must quaff it up.
"Why that brow of gloom and pallor ?
Answer, why that sudden start?"
Low the Eastern stranger muttered
Of the spells that chilled his heart.
"No! my eyes have not deceived me,
As I fondly dreamed erewhile :
See, the victim bride 's descending
From the Eajah's funeral pile.
" See, she cometh, wildly streaming
Are her robes ; her raven hair :
See she cometh ; darkly gleaming
From her eyes their fell despair.
Now she stands beside the altar,
In the Brahmin's sacred shrine ;
Now a jewelled cup she seizes,
Flames within it seem to shine.
Now, O God ! she leaves the arras,
Steps upon the chamber floor ;
"We are lost — the prey of demons ; —
Baron ! I will gaze no more."
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 141
Turned away the soul-sick stranger,
Traversed he the chamber high,
When the Baron's awful aspect
Chained his step and fixed his eye,
ITever from his memory perished.
Through long years of after life
In the camp, the court, the tattle,
That remorseful face of strife.
Rooted as a senseless statue,
In his hand the cup of gold ;
Lips apart and eyes distended,
Stood the Norman Baron bold.
High her cup the Phantom lifted.
Flames within it seemed to roll ;
Then alone these words she uttered,
'■'■ Pledge me in thy feudal oowV
Chained and speechless, guest and servant
Saw the Baron drain the draught ;
Saw him fall convulsed and blackened,
As the deadly bowl he quaffed ;
Saw the Phantom bending o'er him,
As libation on his head
Slowly, and with mien exulting,
From the cup of flames she shed.
Then a shriek of smothered anguish
Rang the Indian Chamber through,
While a gust of icy bleakness
From the waving arras blew.
In its breath the watchers shuddered,
And the portals open rung,
And the ample hearth was darkened,
As if ice was on it flung.
And the lofty torches warring
For a moment in the blast,
In their sconces were extinguished
Leaving darkness o'er the past!
142 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
THE FOE'S RETURN".
She deemed him dead in a foreign land,
And the smile came back with its glory bland ;
Lighting her face, as in other years.
Ere shame and sorrow had taught her tears.
She felt like a bird from its cage let free,
Elate and wild with her ecstasy.
Oh, thought of horror ! that death should bear
A balm to the bosom of one so fair !
Yet, deem her not of the cold and vain ;
Long had she bow'd 'neath a galling chain ;
She had cower'd to the dark disgrace and wrong,
That demon vengeance had threaten'd long.
And when she knew that her foe was gone.
Her life awaked to a second dawn.
He was dead ! that secret of shame and gloom
Lay buried deep in his» distant tomb.
He was dead ! and no more could that dark face gleam,
Haggard and vengeful in thought or dream ;
No more should she shudder to hear his name,
"With a chilling heart and a brow of flame.
'Twas a horrid joy that made her start,
"With tearful smiles and a thankful heart,
As she thought on his corse, bloody and stark !
And his lonesome grave, chilly and dark !
And she bless'd the steel that laid him low.
And she sent up prayers for his mortal foe ;
And again the glory of earth and sky
Came flashing back to her heart and eye.
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 143
She stood once more in halls of pride,
And the light of her heauty was deified :
And she seemed to the eyes of men a star,
Lovely, but lonely — ^flashing, but far.
There came a festal of splendor rare,
To welcome a warrior from toil and care ;
He had been afar amid Egypt's sands,
The dauntless leader of conquering bands.
He had risen by his sword from his humble lot.
And his youth of mystery was all forgot ;
He had won a name mid his country's peers —
None knew the tissue of his earlier years.
And when he stood in that stately room,
His brow for awhile forgot its gloom —
That gathering gloom, that had lingered long
Over those features haughty and strong.
His ear inclined to the measures sweet,
That seem'd the echo of fairy feet ;
And haply all memory of other time,
Lay hushed awhile in that breast of crime
A voice sang forth from the festal crowd,
" We would crown thy temples with laurel proud;
Hero, bend, that thy brow may wear
A garland wreathed by the young and fair."
He bow'd his head with a mocking smile,
And the crowd made way for a radiant file ;
Creatures of beauty, stately and fair,
"With flowing robes, and with floating hair.
And one, the first in that lovely train,
Like a form that gleams from a Grecian fane ;■
"With her antique paleness, her godlike mien,
Fit emblem seemed for the festive queen.
144 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
She came with a timid and stately grace,
The noblest and last of a princely race ;
Unconscious she, as the lamb led up.
To fill with blood the libation cup.
And now they are standing face to face ; —
Hath a dream come o'er that festive place ?
One of those visions ghastly and wild.
That makes her shriek like a thing defiled ?
She raised her hand to her wildered brow !
'Tis a strange delusion ! she murmured low ! •
'Tis but a dream — and she strove to speak.
But her heart was frozen, her voice was weak.
She met his gaze with its fearful spell.
And the wreath from her fainting fingers fell ;
While his low voice hissed on her shuddering eaPj
" We've met at last, slave ! dost thou fear ?"
For awhile she stood, as a bird is said
To meet the gaze of the serpent dread ;
Pale and still, for a time she stood.
In the midst of that wondering multitude.
And who shall say, what horrors shook
Her parting soul in that long, fixed look ?
Death had deceived her, and again flung back
That loathsome form, with its spirit black !
The grave had yawned, and the dead unurned,
And with ghastlier horrors the foe returned !
He who had crushed her for years in dust,
Had rent the tomb to resume his trust !
Such might have been her tempestuous thought,
If thought in that chilling bosom wrought ;
But the sudden horror, its fear, its strife,
Sever'd the strings of that youthful life.
CATHARINE ANNE WAREIELD. 145
And prone slie fell on that floor of stone,
With a gasping sob, and a long, low moan ;
Then all was o'er. Even thus she died !
And in death at last — was the foe defied !
I HAVE SEEN THIS PLACE BEFORE.
I have seen this place before —
'Tis a strange, mysterious truth ;
Yet my foot hath never pressed this shore,
In childhood or in youth ;
I know these ruins grey,
I know these cloisters dim —
My soul hath been in these walls away,
When slumber chains each limb.
In a dream, a midnight dream,
I have stood upon this heath.
With this blue and winding stream,
And the lonely vale beneath ;
The same dark sky was there.
With its bleak shade on my brow,
The same deep feeling of despair
That clings about me now.
Friend, 'tis a fearful spell.
That binds these ruins grey ;
Why came my spirit here to dwell.
When my frame was far away ?
Can the wild and soaring soul
Go out on its eagle sweep,
And traverse earth without control,
While the frame is wrapt in sleep ?
Hath memory caught a gleam
From a life whose term is o'er,
And borne it back in that mystic dream —
Say, have I lived before ?
10
146 WOMEX OF THE SOUTn.
Or was prophetic power
To that midnight vision lent ?
Is my fate bound up in this ruined tower
Speak ! thou art eloquent.
MADELINE.
All day that name has haunted me —
That sweet and gentle name —
Like some deep olden melody,
Forgotten long by fame,
"Which in one unforgetting heart
Is loved and prized alone ;
Beautiful from the thoughts that start
To life with every tone.
Oh Madeline! — dear Madeline!
Thy name hath still a spell
To lead me from this passing scene,
Back with the past to dwell.
And when I hear that gentle word.
So beautiful to me,
"Wild tears within my heart are stirred,
I yearn to be with thee.
Thou hast a foreign grave, my friend,
A lone Italian bed ; —
Oh! do green trees above thee bend?
Are blossoms o'er thee shed ?
Or do the wild rank weeds alone,
In all their southern bloom,
Clamber around the simple stone
They placed to mark thy tomb ?
It is not there that thou should'st sleep.
Nor yet in vault or aisle,
"Where tlie sweet rain may never weep,
The glad sun never smile.
CATHARINE ANNE WARFIELD. 147
In that lone dell where clings the moss,
Hid from the burning noon,
Where evermore a fonntain voice
Singeth the same low tune ;
Where the wild flowers grow tall and fair
In the sun-chequered shade,
And the song of birds is in the air,
Should thy low grave be made.
I would that I could share thy sleep ;
I sicken to depart :
I'm weary of the thoughts that keep
Their vigils in my heart.
I'm weary of the daily care.
The hourly dread and strife.
The joys that pall, the dreams that wear
The energies of life ;
I'm weary of the light and vain,
That still to me are dear ;
The hearts too weak to give again
The love I lavish here.
I meet on earth no sympathies ;
My spirit stands alone;
I see with deeper, sadder eyes.
Than those around me thrown.
My smiles are sadder than my tears ;
My sky is overcast ;
I live with dreams of other years,
And memories of the past.
Even as I sit and dream alone
Within this antique hall,
With its dim echoing floor of stone,
Its dark empannelled wall.
With its neglected glimmering hearth.
Its twilight grey and drear,
Amid my lone and voiceless dearth
I dream that thou art here.
148 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
I think I still can see thee stand
Amid the dying light ;
StiU hear thy voice, still touch thy hand,
As on that parting night ;
For wheresoe'er thy step hath been,
"Where'er thy voice was free,
To me — to me — dear Madeline,
Thou seemest still to be.
UNHOLY LOVE.
I will not think of him — Fll pace
This old and ruined hall ;
And dream of that illustrious race,
Whose pictures line the wall.
And from their dark and haughty eyes.
Though faded now, and dim,
A better spirit shall arise —
I will not think of him.
I may not think of him ! I'll stand
Beneath those branching elms ;
And drink the sunlight soft and bland,
And dream of angel realms.
And from the earth, and from the eve,
And from the sunlight's urn,
My soul her coloring shall receive ;
He shall not here return.
I must not think of him. I'll call
Around me dance and song ;
Until this lone dismantled hall,
Shakes with the motley throng :
And with those flashing smiles he praised,
I'll ipove amid the scene,
Till haughty spirits stand amazed,
And own me for their queen.
ELEANOR PEKCT LEE.
Mks. Lee was tlie younger sister of Mrs. Warfield, and
author, jointly witli her, of the " Wife of Leon, and Other
Poems," as well as the collection which followed it. As a
child she composed little and with no great facility. Her
poetic taste, at that period, seemed rather to manifest itself
through the inspirations of others. She was in the habit of
committing to memory every poem that struck her fancy ;
and this was done with a facility reminding one of the
chemical operation of photography. A few moments of
steady gazing and murmured repetition, and the poem was
engraven upon her retentive brain, ready for recitation.
Her talent for declamation was so marked as to have
entitled her to a distinguished place in histrionic annals, had
inclination or necessity led her to adopt this line of art.
Gifted with grace, beauty, marvellous flexibility of feature
and attitude, wonderful nerve and self-command, and that most
" excellent thing in woman " — a richly sympathetic voice — -
nothing was wanted to insure her success, either as reader or
actress. Her resemblance to the antique heads of Sappho has
been more than once remarked by artists and admirers of the
Greek lines of beauty.
It was not until the sorrows of life began to overshadow
her joyous spirit, that her native poetic element broke forth
in strains passionate and tender as her own depths.
Li her nineteenth year she sustained a loss from which she
never wholly recovered, and for which she found her greatest
150
ELEANOR PERCY LEE. 151
consolation in poetry and religion. She became, soon after, a
member of tbe Catholic church, to the doctrines of which she
had early inclined, and in the observance of which she lived
and died.
She had passed her majority when she gave her hand to
Henry Lee, a native of Virginia, although a resident of Mis-
sissippi at the time of their union. They resided henceforth,
first on Mrs. Lee's estate in Hinds County, Mississippi — where
her children were born — and later on Deer Creek — ^where her
husband still lives with his sons. She left one daughter, who
passed to her sister's guardianship.
Iler valuable life was cut short in its bloom, during the
fearful epidemic of 1849, which ravished alike iTorth and
South. She had merged its last years almost wholly in
domestic interests, and left only fragmentary literary remains,
if we except some highly finished translations of the choicest
poems of Beranger and Lamartine, which it is hoped her
friends will soon lay before the public.
THE DESERTED HOUSE.
Eound that house, deserted lying,
TTearily the winds are sighing
Evermore with sound undying
Through the shattered window pane :
As if with its wails, distressing.
It could call each earthly hlessing
From the sods, above them pressing
Back, to live and breathe again.
There the cuckoo sits complaining,
All night long her voice is straining.
And the empoisoned oak-vine training,
Hangs its tendrils on the wall.
152 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
Once within those chambers dreaming,
Gentle looks of love were gleaming,
Gentle tones with deep love teeming,
Did unto each other caU.
Far above the roof-tree failing,
See the hoary vulture sailing,
Marketh she the serpent trailing
Underneath the threshold stone.
Heaven's bright messengers resembling,
Eingdoves, here, of old, were trembling.
As round some fair hand assembling,
They were fed by her alone.
Through the chamber windows prying,
Softly on the dark floor lying.
See the ghostly moonlight, flying
Through the untrodden gloom.
Seems it not to thee, sweet faces,
Shadowy forms of vanished graces.
Stealing, flitting to their places.
In that long forsaken room ?
"WTiere the darkened stairway windeth,
There her brood the Eagle mindeth,
And with chains Arachne bindeth.
Balustrade to balustrade.
Once so lightly upward bounding,
Pairy steps were heard resounding,
"While sweet laughter, wild, astounding,
Echoes through the mansion made.
Round the oaken tables spreading,
Through the hall the guests were treading,
"Where the festal lamps were shedding
Light upon the ruby wine.
ELEANOR PERCY LEE. 153
Now swift through the doorway shrunken,
Creeping o'er the threshold sunken,
With the dew and starlight drunken,
Eeptile insects seem to twine.
In the parlor, long forsaken.
Once the lute was wont to waken ;
And with locks all lightly shaken.
Maids and matrons joined in mirth.
Gentle accents here were swelling,
Hallowed voices often telling
Heaven alone was virtue's dwelling ;
All these beings rest in earth.
'Mid these garden flowerets pining,
'Neath the starlight dimly shining,
"Where the deadly vine is twining,
Once were glorious bowers.
Once were gladsome children playing,
O'er the grass plots lightly straying,
"With their golden ringlets swaying
'Neath their crowns of flowers.
By yon gnarled oak's curious twisting,
Here was once a lover's trysting,
Fondly to each other listing,
"While they told their plighted vows.
Often when the lightning streaketh,
And the wind its branches seeketh,
Then that olden oak-tree speaketh.
And sweet voices fill the boughs.
Could we bring again the glory,
To this mansion grey and hoary,
Flinging light on every story,
Yet it would be desolate. •
154 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Yet (they s&j) 'tis doomed hereafter;
Forms shall gleam from wall and rafter,
Full of silent tears and laughter,
Mingling with a human fate.
Some indeed have said, that creeping,
Nightly from the window peeping,
Lightly from the casement leaping,
They a ghostly maid have seen.
On the broken gate she swingeth.
And her wan-like hands she wringeth,
And with garments white she wingeth
O'er the grassy plain so green.
To the dark oak-tree she cometh,
Eound its trunk she wildly roameth.
Shuddering, as the dark stream foameth,
There she roves till break of day.
Hers they say was love elicit,
Yet from out her murdered spirit,
This sad mansion did inherit
A curse never done (away.
Therefore, in the balance weighing.
Underneath the sods decaying,
With their white hands clasped as praying.
Sleep the owners of the spot.
While this home of the departed,
Making sad the lightest hearted,
Standeth still, a house deserted —
By the world, save me, forgot.
ELSAXOR PEKGY LEE. 155
THE LILY OF THE NILE.
Oil ! exqiiiaite thou art — thy stately form
Rears well its head of antique beauty, high
Above earth's more degenerate blossoms — for
TJiou wert when Europe was a wilderness,
And we an unknown people.
Thou hast seea
The gorgeous triumphs of Egyptian kings,
And made thy snowy leaf the scroll, whereon
The oracles of Isis and Osiris
"Were writ in ages post. Egyptian girls
Have swept their long robes past thee, as they went
Bearing their pitchers to the ancient Nile.
And thou hast seen thine image in its waves,
As beautiful as theirs. Oh, mystic flower!
Thy presence fills my heart with inspiration,
And Pharaoh's palaces arise again.
Perchance Cleopatra bound thee on her brow,
(Not dark, as many deem it, for she was
Of the pure old Greek race,) and in such crown
Received the kingly Cassar in her arms.
Oh, thou art beautiful without compeer,
Thou sculptured urn — thou handiwork af Go<l !
Once, in a spell of sickness I lay prone,
"With weeping fi-iends around me. AH things were
Tried in succession, to restore my smile.
""What would'st thou, then?" the weary watchers cried;
And I replied, "A Lily of the Nile!
Oh, let me look upon its stately stem —
Let me search deep within its scroll -like leaf,
Filled to the brim with the cool midnight dew.
And I grow well again. Friends, friends, I die
Because my heart yearns for the Beautiful,
Shut from my gaze forever ; bring me that,
And I grow well again I — And that fair flower
156 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Hath in itself all that is pure and rare —
Bear me that flower!" But thou wert far awaj;
Yes, far awaj — and thus, from year to year,
With hurried feet I trod along earth's gardens,
Searching for thee ! parting the overhanging houghs,
Putting aside the flowers, and searching still.
And when they said, "Are these not heautiful?"
My heart asked for the old Egyptian flower,
Until I found thee !
Upon all earth's hlooms,
Hath my heart looked with love almost religious :
But chief to me some speak as if with tongues.
For me the lone, hlue hyacinth, hath a voice
Eedolent of sweet music. Angel dreams
rioat o'er that flower — angel voices hreathe
From its blue petals, with a sacred song. '
For me, the white cape jessamine's perfume
Bears thought of love upon it, human love,
But purified, exalted as the skies.
But thou, rare Lily ! thou art more to me ;
Thou stirrest up the fountain of my life.
What is it makes thy spell ? Say, have I stood
In some past life upon thy h^ks, O Nile !
Amid thy pyramids, thy priests, thy kings,
So strong is thy spell round me?
It may be,
For as I saw thee, flower ! my heart leaped forth
As if to welcome thee, and life itself
Stayed for a moment all its rushing tides.
To live within thy breath, and my soul drank
Thy beauty, like an old familiar thing.
For thou hast filled some vacant measure up.
Of my deep yearnings for the immaculate 1
ELEANOR PERCY LEE. 157
THE ANCESTRESS.
She is weary,
She is dreary,
In the earth she longs to rest —
All she cherished,
All have perished ;
All on earth she loved the best.
All who loved her,
All who moved her
With their passionate hopes and fears :
All around her,
All that bound her
To the home of earlier years.
Softly walking.
Gently talking.
Evermore in silence sighing ;
Never dreading.
Never shedding
Tears, to know that she is dying.
She is aged.
Grief hath waged
"War with all her beauty bright;
And she weareth —
Yet she beareth
On her brow a seal of light.
Oft she sitteth
And repeateth
Many a broken accent there ;
God she praiseth.
And she raiseth
Oft her withered hands in prayer.
158 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
She is mourning,
Ever turning
Backward still her longing glance ;
And she -weepeth
Ere she sleepeth,
Tliat her dream is but a trance.
For the cherished
AU have perished,
All on earth she loved the best.
She is dreary,
She is weary —
In the green earth let her rest.
THE CHILD OF MANY TEARsS.
His very birth with grief was fraught,
And ominous the day ;
The angel who the infant brought.
The mother called away ;
And still we reared, in doubt and care,
The boy through rolling years;
And called him, in our valley fair,
" The child of many tears."
He was a gentle, loving thing.
Of a soft heart aiid true ;
With love that to our souls did cling,
And daily, hourly grew ;
And his were dark and shaded eyes ;
And lashes soft and fine ;
A forehead calm as summer skies,
A childish face divine.
But his was an imperfect mold —
Oh ! sorrow lone and dim —
Those limbs so free, and lithe, and bold,
God had not given to him.
ELEAiVOR TERCY LEE. ♦ 159
But bent, and wry, and ill at ease
In his dark, mournful lot,
He seemed like a rich master-piece
Half finished, and — forgot.
He grew up in our native vale,
Ev'n with the bending flowers;
His boyish cheek was very pale,
As jas'mine of the bowers.
And most he loved to lie at length
Upon the long soft grass,
WTiile visions of a sweeping strength
O'er his deep heart would pass.
His was a keen and subtile soul —
And words of power and might,
And visions he could not control,
Burst evermore to light.
The hidden treasures of his thought
First calmly flowed along,
Until they swelled, with beauty fraught,
A river broad and strong.
He left us — left that lowly home.
That porch he loved so well :
We listed his slow step to come,
Vainly, when evening fell.
"We often to each other spake
Of him with earnest fears ;
"We loved him for his parent's sake,
That " child of many tears."
And many a year rolled slowly on,
With changes crowded fast ;
"We had not heard of him since on
Our step he pondered last.
iOO ' WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
One eve, a stranger to our door
Came covered with tlie snow,
And from his lips we heard once mere
Of him — lov'd long ago.
The highest in the council-room,
The wittiest in the hall ;
The lord of a far distant home,
Adored, revered of all ;
Wearing upon a youthful brow.
The power and pride of years.
With yearnings strange, we name him now
The " child of many tears."
THE SUN-STEUCK EAGLE.
I saw an eagle sweep to the sky —
The God-like ! — seeking his place on high,
With a strong, and wild, and rapid wing —
A dark and yet a dazzling thing ;
And his arching neck, his bristling crest.
And the dark plumes quivering upon his breast ;
And his eye, bent up to each beam of light,
Like a bright sword flash'd with a sword in fight.
I saw him rise o'er the forest trees ;
I saw his pinion ride the breeze ;
Beyond the clouds I watched him tower
On his path of pride — his flight of power.
I watched him wheeling, stern and lone,
Where the keenest ray of the sun was thrown ;
Soaring, circling, bathed in light :
Such was that desert eagle's flight.
Suddenly, then, to my straining eye,
I saw the strong wing slack on high ;
ELEANOR PERCY LEE. 16]
I'ailing, falling to earth once more ;
The dark breast covered -with foam and gore ;
The dark eyes' glory dim with pain ;
Sick to death with a sun-struck brain !
Reeling down from that height divine,
Eagle of heaven ! such fall was thine!
Even so we see the sons of light,
Up to the day-beam steer their flight ;
And the wing of genius cleaves the sky,
As the clouds rush on when the winds are high ;
Then comes the hour of sudden dread —
Then is the blasting sun-light shed ;
And the gifted, fall in their agony,
Sun-struck eagle ! to die like thee !
BURY HER WITH HER SHINING HAIR.
Bury her with her shining hair
Around her streaming bright ;
Bury her with those locks so rare
Enrobing her in light.
As saints who in their native sky
Their golden haloes wear,
Around her forehead, pure and high,
Enwreathe the shining hair.
She was too frail on earth to stay ;
I never saw a face,
On which, of premature decay
Was set so plain a trace.
She was too pure to linger here,
Amid the homes of earth ;
Her spirit in another sphere
Had its immortal birth.
11
i62 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Slie was not one to live and love,
Amid earth's fading things ;
Her being had its home above,
And spread immortal vp'ings.
And round her now, as still she sleeps
Encoffined in her prime,
No eye in anguished sorrow weeps,
For grief is here sublime.
Even while she lived, an awe was cast
Around her loveliness ;
It seemed as if, whene'er she passed,
A spirit came to bless.
A child upraised its tiny hands.
And cried — "Oh, weep no more,
Mother ! behold an angel stands
Before our cottage door."
"We would not bring her back to life,
With word, or charm, or sign —
Nor yet recall to scenes of strife
A creature all divine.
We would not even ask to shred
One tress of golden gleam.
That o'er that fair and perfect head
Sheds a refulgent beam.
JSTo I — lay her with her shining hair
Around her flowing bright ;
We would not keep, of one so rare,
' Memorials in our sight.
Too harsh a shade would seem to lie
On all things here beneath,
If we beheld one token by.
Of her who sleeps in death.
C.B.Ricliardsoii.Publislier .
MARIA J. McINTOSH.
It is now nineteen years since Miss Mclntosli, suddenly
deirrived of an ample fortune, sent out her first little volume to
feel the pulse of tlie public, and decide tlie question, " to be, or
not to be," in the sense of authorship. It was a child's book,
of religious tone and pleasantly familiar style, its very name
(" Blind Alice ") suggestive of its doubtful mission. But the
" cry of the children," and the verdict of the people, were a
unanimous " to be ;" and in all these after years, she has not
only held her position, but, without adventitious aids, eccentri-
cities of style, or any species of chicanery, steadily advanced.
Her name is familiar now in every household, and her books
have become a feature of American literature.
Twenty-five years have made Miss Mcintosh a citizen of the
ISTorth, and gladly would we claim her by birth as by adoption ;
but " honor to whom honor is due." It cannot be denied, that
though of Scottish descent, tracing back to the clan Mcintosh,
famous in history as loyal adherents of the House of Stuart, she
was born in Georgia, in the village of Sunbury, not far from
Savannah, and there received her primal stamp and stamina.
Driven from his native land by the fall of the Stuarts,
Captain John More Mcintosh, the great-grandfather of the
author, set sail, in 1735, with one hundred retainers, for the
colony of Georgia. They landed on the banks of the Altamaha,
and called their settlement (now known as Darien) JSTew Inver-
ness, in memory of Fatherland. The county still bears the
163
164 "WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
original name of Mcintosh. Among the sons and grandsons of
this brave pioneer, were Colonel William and Major Lachlan
Mcintosh, the grandfather and father of our author; botii
officers in the American- army of the Eevolntion, the latter a
lawyer as well, and proving himself large enongh to combine,
and adorn equally, the two arduous and honorable professions.
Soon after the Kevolution, Major Mcintosh, who seems to
have been a man of heart and great social attractions, married
a lady every way worthy of liim, and removed to the village of
Sunbury, where, in a fine old mansion looking out upon the sea,
was born and reared the subject of our sketch. Yery vivid and
tender are her recollections of this old home, amid whose natural
loveliness, and social and fireside genialities, passed the spring-
time of her life ; warm, golden, native memories, which are
woven with the very fibres of her being, and stamp her, every-
where, a southron bom.
Even the little village of Sunbury boasted of an Academy,
with an " Irish gentleman," a graduate of the University of
Antrim, at its head ; and under these auspices the " young idea "
of our author commenced, happily, its development. To the
' discipline of this school, in a good degree, she gratefully ascribes
the habit of self-reliance, which was afterward her invaluable
and distinguishing characteristic. It was very early called in
requisition ; for her mother, rendered helpless for years before
her death by a prostrating illness, was obliged to throw upon
the young school-girl not only the mantle of her own responsi-
bilities, but the flesh-and-spirit-trying office of a devoted nurse.
Tears of cheerful, self-denying ministration by the bedside of
this dear invalid, prepared our author, perhaps more eifectively
than any other experience, for her part in the stirring drama of
life.
In 1835, after the death of both father and motlier, Miss
Mcintosh came to reside in jS^ew York with her brother, Captain
MARIA J. McINTOSH. 1 Co
James M. Mclntosli, U. S. Navy. Disposing of her prope)t;r
in Georgia, she then vested the proceeds in !N^ew York securi-
ties, and entered, with the full glow of her exuberant nature,
upon the electrical currents of her new sphere.
But not thus was she to awake to a true self-knowledge. In
the crisis of 1837, every vestige of her patrimony was swallowed
up, and out of the vortex rose a new creation. Thrown upon
her own powers, they met her, for the first time, face to face,
strong and vigorous. Cast upon the beautiful faith of her
childhood, she found herself serenely upheld, and with a hopeful
prayer she began her work.
It had been, suggested by a friend, that she should test her
powers in a series of juvenile tales, and establish a relation with
the public under the name of " Aunt Kitty." In two years
" Blind Alice " was completed, and then ensued the delays
usually attendant upon the publication of an unaccredited work.
ISTot until January, 1841, was it brought out by Mr. Newman,
and then with marked success.
Thus stimulated, our author went rapidly through the
proposed series, and, in 1843, had given to tlie world succes-
sively, " Jessie Grahame," "Florence Arnott," " Grace and
Clara," and " Ellen Leslie," each one a simply tissued casket,
in which, pure as a dew-drop, sparkled its own jewel of moral
truth. " Aunt Kitty " grew famous. Countless were the curly-
headed darlings who blessed her in their nightly prayers, and
carried her, a last, sweet thought, into dream-land. Nor can
we doubt that from these little books has dropped into manr
a tender heart such seed as afterward sprang up and ripened
into golden fruit. About this fair, fine basis of her fame, Miss
Mcintosh loves to wreathe the choicest of her laurels.
In 1844, " Conquest and Self-Conquest," and " "Woman an
Enigma," were published by the Messrs. Harper, and, in 1845,
the same house ]Todueed " Praise and Principle," and " The
166 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Cousins," a little Yolume intended, originally, to complete tlie
series called " Aimt Kitty's Tales." She then wrote "■ Two
Lives, or To Seem and to Be," wliicli was published by the
Messrs. Appleton in 184:6, with the name, until then withheld, of
the author. In 1847, the same house republished " Aunt Kitty's
Tales," corrected and collected in one volume ; and, in 1848,
brought out " Charms and Counter-Charms," a work in which
the author seems to have concentrated the strength of her artistic
and womanly nature. It is threaded with veins and nerves, as
if she had dipped her pen in living hearts, and written on, and
on, because the electric tide would flow. It impresses one with
a painful sense of reality, and, at the same time, with a conflict-
ing sense of unnaturalness — the unnaturalness, not of highly-
wrought fiction, but of intense truth. ' The plot is complicate,
but well defined and sustained. Questions of vital import are
involved, and worked out with a will and fervor which leave
their indelible record upon the memory of the reader.-
Easton Hastings, the hero, belongs, we should say, to the
German type of organism and temperament. A " dark man " —
the philosopher Alcott would call him — with luminous phases.
A man of strong will and rare physical and spiritual magnetism ;
skilled in metaphysical disquisition, worldly-wise, skeptical, and
suflicient ; lofty and cold as a mountain peak to the many, but
to those who interest him, or whom for any reason he would
interest, warm, winsome, and low-voiced as the sigh of a sum-
mer twilight ; a man of whom we can, most of us, say, we have
known one such in a lifetime ; one whom we admired and
deprecated ; a sphere that was not loud nor discordant, but deep
and unserene ; a spirit that knew its power and loved to test it,
though in the process it stirred and troubled many waters.
Evelyn Beresford, a young girl of warm heart and generous
impulses, the pet and sunbeam of her father's house, marries
Easton Hastings, and is borne along his fiery orbit, ignoring, to
MARIA J. McINTOSH. IGT
meet liis exactions, one after another, tlie finer and liolier
instincts of lier nature, till at last she reaches a point from
whence she must retrace her steps or lose all. Stifling the cry
of her agonized heart, she goes forth from his home, with her
frail life in her hand, and Easton Hastings, left alone with the
memory of her love and prayerful vigils, for the first time
awakes to a sense of " heart within and God o'erhead." Peni-
tent and subdued, he seeks out the fugitive, and a new union,
based upon the sympathy and fitness of divine appointment,
secures to both the hajjpiness which had well-nigh been wrecked
forever.
There is no work from the pen of Miss Mcintosh which con-
reys to the world a more important and salutary lesson than
this. Written with a fervidness and abandon which belong to
no other production of the gifted writer, it sends its moral home
with greater certainty, and afibrds the fairest criterion of her
powers. *
In 1849, " Evenings at Donaldson Manor," a collection of
stories, written at different times for magazines, was published
by the Appletons, and, in 1850, they also issued " Woman in
America, her Work and her Keward."
In this book the writer appears in a new aspect. Leaving
the rich fields of imagination, she comes before her readers with
an ethical treatise, in which she most skillfully dissects the arti-
ficial system of social life in America, and shows herself capable
of a wide and well-linked range of logical thought. We find in
this work strong proofs of the writer's self-assertion and equi-
poise. She has evidently lost much of her respect for
" The pleasant old conventions of our false humanity."
and looks at life's shams and servilities through her own proper
eye-glass. She even ventures to define clearly her conception
of that hackneyed, evasive, nondescript thing, " a woman's
168 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
sphere ;" and. lier ideas upontlie subject are iii strict accordance
witli her life.
Her next book, " The Lofty and the Lowly," appeared in
1853. It is a tale descriptive of Southern life, and has sold
largely at home and abroad.
In 1857, " Yiolet, or the Cross and the Crown," was brought
out by Jewett & Co., of Boston. This work is marked by fine
delineations- and dramatic power, no less than by simplicity and
pathos.
The story unfolds with a wild shipwreck scene on the coast
of 'New Jersey. A sweet babe, the only living thing upon the
stranded vessel, is found lashed to an upper berth, while its
dead mother lies, white and cold, beneath the water upon the
cabin floor. The burial scene upon that desolate shore — the
group of rude wreckers, and the lonely waif-child — the still
sleeper in thorough deal-box — the " dust to dust " of the sublime
service, mingling with the hoarse roar of the ocean — is singu-
larly impressive. The book is full of such pictures.
The foundling is claimed by one of the wreckers, and taught
to look upon him and his coarse companions as lier natural pro-
tectors. While yet very young, by one of the coincidences
occasional to real life, inevitable to romance, she is thrown into
the presence of her true father, who, unconscious of their tender
relation, yet impelled by an undefinable instinct, adopts his
unknown child. She is baptized Yiolet Ross, in memory of his
angel wife — her mother — and removed from the lawless wreck-
ers to a refined and luxurious home. But, amid the amenities
of her new position, one thought haunts and distresses her ; she
is not Yiolet Ross, the daughter of her noble foster-father, but
Mary Yan Dyke, and must still say " father " to the repulsive
wrecker, and " mother " to the wrecker's wife ; they have a first
claim, and may, at any time, recall her. The good pastor tells
her that every human creature must bear a cross on earth, who
MARIA J. McINTOSH. 169
would wear a crown iu lieaven, and that this is her cross. That
night the angels record the vow of the beautiful girl, to bear
cheerfully and unfalteringly the burden imposed upon her ; and
then commence a life of sacrifice and a series of events which
give to the book a peculiar and deep interest. Many a bruised
heart has lifted itself hopefully in the light of little Yiolet's
smile and the strength of the promise, thus happily presented,
" Bear the cross, and ye shall wear the crown."
In 185S, " Meta Gray," a juvenile tale, which has been read
through springing tears by more than one with small claims to
juvenility, was published by the Appletons.
In January, 1859, Miss Mcintosh, in company with her
nephew (the Hon. John Ward, American minister to China)
and his family, sailed for Liverpool. After spending some
months in pleasant wanderings about England and France, Mr.
"Ward proceeded upon his mission, and Miss Mcintosh, in com-
pany with Mrs. Ward and her children, settled quietly down in
one of the picturesque valleys of Geneva, Switzerland ; just such
a nestling-place as Ossian would have painted with one dash
of his magical pencil : " a green field in the bosom of hills winds
silent with its own blue strjeam." Tlieir little cottage, shut in
by Alpine heights, looking out only upon its own vale and
stream, the bright flowers in the clefts of the mountain, and the
deepening depths of ever-changing cloud-land, was the very
haven of rest which the over-wrought brain of our author
required. Here, in the society of a few genial friends, and in
tender and worshipful communion with the great heart of
^Nature, she not only gathered strength and inspiration, but
memorized much valuable material for future labors.
At the close of the year, unwilling to remain longer from
duties and responsibilities at home, she returned to America,
and is now joreparing for publication a work commenced before
her departure for Europe : writing in intervals of leisure,
170 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
snatclied. from social, tutorial and fireside claims, which would
fill up, and overrun, a life less determined and systematic.
Two or three hours of each day are devoted to the young ladies
of Miss Haines' well-ordered school : and occasionally, as if to
show the utmost tension of which twelve mortal hours are
capable, she stirs iij) an aj)preciative class at her own house,
with readings from the Greek tragedies.
Miss Mcintosh is known to the world chiefly as a prose
writer ; yet among her unpublished j)apers are to be found
metrical gems such as only a poet could have conceived and
crystallized ; fragments of songs, too, are there : a sigh of " A
Lament," a swell of " A Pean," a pinion of " A Prayer," some
of which thrill on the ear like the impinging strains of the old
harpers. These specimens are simple in their construction ;
there is no straining for metaphorical efi^ect, and no sublime
ambiguity; but they come, as true poems should, from the
heart, mellow and rhythmical with the heart's emotions.
Miss Mcintosh's hooks have all been translated into French,
and have sold largely, both in England and Prance. She has
achieved for herself independence and distinction, and now, in
a pleasant home, dispenses those refined courtesies which are
ever a distinguishing mark of the high-bred Southerner.
But we must not forget that we are presenting Miss Mcin-
tosh to the world only as the writer / the mimosan modesty of
the woman will ever limit to her immediate circle the truest
knowledore of her native nobleness and Christian worth.
WOMAN— HER OFTICES AND HER POWERS.
How many eloquent theses have been written, and how much logic
wasted, to prove tlie equality of the sexes ! It seems to us, that the writers
and speakers on this subject Avould have done well to commence by defin-
MARIA J. McINTOSH. 171
ing their terms. What is meant bj equality as here used ? It is intended
to convey the idea that the soul of woman is as precious to the Father
of spirits as that of man ? that woman has an equal interest with man in
all those great events which have marked the dealings of God with His
intelligent creation on our earth, from the hour in which Adam, awaking
from a deep sleep, found beside him the companion of his sinless and
happy life, to the present moment, when the sin-stricken and sorrowing
soul of man, echoing the divine conviction that it is not good for him to
he alone, still seeks in woman his "help-meet" in the labors, the trials,
and suiferings of mortality ? Are we to understand from it that woman,
equally with man, has a trust committed to her by the Judge of aU, for the
fulfillment of which she will be held responsible ? Can these things be
matter of doubt ? Were not Mary and Martha loved as well as Lazarus ?
Did not the soul of Anna kindle with as divine an inspiration as that of
Simeon, Avhen she held in her arms the infant Saviour ?
Or is the question, whether woman exerts an equally important influence
over the character and destinies of our race ? This can scarcely be a ques-
tion to one familiar with the records of Paradise and Bethlehem.
And yet the unqualified assertion of equality between the sexes, would
be contradicted alike by sacred and profane history.
Different offices and Afferent powers — this is what we would assert of
them, leaving to others the vain question of equality or inequality. Each
seems to us equally important to the fulfillment of God's designs in the for-
mation, the preservation and the perfection of human society.
The stout heart and strong hand of man are obviously needed in every
successive stage of social organization, from its earliest attempts to the
highest development it has yet attained. There has been a time predicted
indeed, and we humbly hope there are already tokens that this good time is
coming, when "the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie
down with the kid, and the young lion and the fatling together, and a little
child shall lead them ;" that is, when the passions which have made mankind
like ferocious animals shall be subdued, and a little child, the type of love,
shall lead those for whom bolts and bars had been needed. But till that
period arrive, would not our earth be as one wide Bedlam, were it not that
the strong arm of government supplies outward restraints for those who
have no restraining principle within ? And this government — is it not
clearly man's province ? Has it not been committed to him by heaven, and
is not the nature with which he is gifted the seal of that commission? Law
172 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
is aa uncompromising, inexorable power ; can it he the product of a gentle
■woman's mind? It must be upheld by a force wbich will prove opposition
bootless ; does that belong to woman ?
But while all the outward machinery of government, the body, the thews
and sinews of society, are man's, woman, if true to her own not less impor-
tant or less sacred mission, controls the vital principle. Unseen herself,
working like nature, in secret, she regulates its pulsations, and sends forth
from its heart, in pure, temperate flow, the life-giving current. It is hers to
warm into life the earliest germs of thought and feeling in the infant mind,
to watch the first dawning of light upon the awakening soul, to aid the first
faint struggles of the clay-encumbered spirit, to clasp the beautiful realities
which here and there present themselves amid the glittering falsities of
earth, and to guide its first tottering steps into the paths of peace. And
who does not feel how her warm affections and quick irrepressible sympa-
thies fit her for these labors of love ? As the young immortal advances in
his career, he comes to need a severer discipline, and man, with his uncon-
ceding reason and stern resolve, becomes his teacher. Yet think not that
woman's work is done when the child has passed into the youth, or the
youth into the man. Still, as disease lays its hand heavily upon the strong
frame, and sorrow wrings the proud heart of man, she, the " help-meet," if
faithful to her allotted work, is at his side, teaching him to bend to the
storms of life, that he may not be broken by them ; humbly stooping herself,
that she may remove from his path every " stone of stumbling," and gently
leading him onward and upward to a Divine consoler, with whose blessed
ministerings the necessities of a more timid spirit and a feebler physical
organization have made her familiar.
"OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES."*
The little Eva, for so Easton Hastings called his first-born, was a fair
child, with the soft eyes and dimpled cheeks of her mother, and with all her
mother's loving heart. The affection of this child for her grave, quiet father,
had been the subject of wondering observation to nurses and nursery-maid^
and of silent delight to Evelyn, almost from her birth. She was a gentle
child, and few things moved her to any vivacious demonstration of feeling,
bat his entrance was early welcomed by a soft, dove-like note, and an eager,
*" •' Charms and Counter Charms."
MARIA J. McIX TOSH. ]
t O
diincing movement of her liands and feet. She -n-ould lie qnietly for hours
with her head pillowed on his bosom, and when he was compelled to resign
her, though she seldom cried aloud, the quivering of the little lip. and the
tenacious grasp of the babv-hand, made a more touching appeal to his feel-
ings. That clinging babv-touch, that soft baby-voice, had exercised a magic
power over the heart of Easton Hastings, awakening the first pure, unselfish
love he had ever known. To this love, and to the home it brightened, he
turned with new power of enjoyment, after the knowledge of Mrs. Mabury's
death had set him free from the torture caused by the thought of her living
agonies. It was but a few short weeks after this, that he sat reading one
day in the room which Mary had formerly occupied at Beresford Hall, but
which had long been designated in the family as Mr. Hastings' study, from
the fact of his having removed his books and papers there, and spending
many of his hours among them. He had not read long, ere he heard those
little feet, " whose very step had music in't " for his ear, come pattering
along the floor of the wide hall, and then, as they paused, a little hand
tapped at the door, and a soft voice cried, " Tis Eve, papa."
He delayed for awhile to open the door, that he might hear the sweet
summons again. When admitted, the child amused herself for some time
with a book of colored engravings, but at length climbed upon the sofa, on
which he sat. and saying, in a languid voice, '"Eve tired, papa,"' stretched
herself out with her head on his knee, and soon fell asleep with his hand
stroking her ringlets. She had looked a little pale in the morning, but as
she slept her color deepened till .her cheeks and lips were of a carnation tint.
Her breath came quick, and while he was admiring her beauty, and rejoicing
in what he thought the glow of health, fever was rioting in her veins — the
canker-worm was eating into the heart of his flower. TTe pass over the
thrill of agony when he first discovered the truth — the days and nights of
fearful watching beside the couch of that beloved suffci'er. during which
Evelyn — the fond Evelyn, to whom her children were as the dearer parts of
her own being — had to become his comforter, and come at once to those last
hoars, every moment of which impressed itself indelibly on his being.
The child's disease was scarlet fever ; and as it was before the German
Hippocrates had revealed to the world the great antidote against that poison
with which God has furnished it, or, at least, before that revelation had been
widely received in America, her case admitted little hope from the first.
Ten days and nights of ever-deepening gloom had passed, and in the silent
night, havirg insisted that Evelyn, who had herself shown symptoms of ill-
174 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
ness tlirougli the day, should retire to bed, Easton Hastings sat alone watch-
ing with a tightening heart the disturbed sleep of little Eva. It was near
midnight when that troubled sleep was broken. The child turned from side
to side uneasily, and looked somewhat wildly around her.
" What is the matter with my darUng ?" asked Easton Hastings, in tones
of melting tenderness.
" Where's mamma? Eve want mamma to say ' Our Father!' "
Easton Hastings had often contemplated the beautiful picture of his child
kneeling, with clasped hands, beside her mother, to lisp her evening prayer,
or since her illness forbade her rising from her bed, of Evelyn kneeling
beside it, taking those clasped hands in hers, and listening to Eva's softly-
murmured words. Well he knew, therefore, what was meant by Eva's
simple phrase, " To say our Father."
" Mamma is asleep," he said ; " when she awakes I will call her."
"No, no, papa; Eve asleep then."
"I will call her at once, then, darling," and he would have moved, but
the little hand was laid on his to arrest him.
"No — don't wake poor mamma ; papa, say ' Our Father ' for Eve."
" Will Eve say it to papa? Speak, then, my darling," he added, finding
that though the hands were clasped, and the sweet eyes devoutly closed, Eva
remained silent.
" ISTo — Eve too sick, papa — Eve can't talk so much. Papa kneel down
and say Our Father, like mamma did last night — won't you, papa?"
Easton Hastings could not resist that pleading voice ; and kneeling, he
laid his hands over the clasped ones of his child, and for the first time
since he had murmured it with childish earnestness in his mother's ear,
his lips gave utterance to that hallowed form of prayer which was given
to man by a divine teacher. At such an hour, under such circumstances,
it could not be uttered carelessly ; and Easton Hastings understood its
solemn import, its recognition of God's sovereignty, its surrender of all
things to Him. He understood it, we say, but he trembled at it. His
infidelity was annihilated, but he believed as the unreconciled believe, and
his heart almost stood still with fear while " Thy will be done on earth
as it is in heaven," fell slowly from his lips.
Soothed by his compliance, Eve became still, and seemed to sleep, but
only for a few minutes. Suddenly, in a louder voice than had been heard
within that room for days, she exclaimed, " Papa, papa, see there — up
there, papa!"
MARIA J. Mcintosh. 175
tr
Her own eyes were fixed upward, on tlie ceiling, as it seemed to Easton
Ilastino-s, for to liim nothing else was visible, while a smile of joy played on
ner lips, and her arms were stretched upward as to some celestial visitant.
"Eve coming!" she cried again. "Take Eve!"
""Will Eve leave papa?" cried Easton Hastings, while unconsciously
he passed his arm over her, as if dreading that she would really he borne
from him.
With eyes still fixed upward, and expending her last strength in an
effort to rise from the bed, Eve mui-mm-ed in broken tones, " Papa come,
too — mamma — grandpa — little brother — dear papa "
The last word could have been distinguished only by the intensely-
listening ear of love. It ended in a sigh ; and Easton Hastings felt, even
while he still clasped her cherub form, and gazed upon her sweetly smil-
ing face, that his Eve had indeed left him forever. That she had ceased
to exist, with the remembrance of that last scene full in his mind, he
could not believe. Henceforth, heaven with its angels, the ministering
spirits of the Most High, was a reality, it was the habitation of his Eve,
and his own heart went longingly forth to it. His proud, stern, unbend-
ing nature had been taught to tremble at the decree of " Him who ruleth
over the armies of heaven and among the inhabitants of the earth" — the
Being and Nature upon which he had hitherto speculated as grand abstrac-
tions, became at once unspeakably interesting facts. Would He contend
with him in wrath? "Would he snatch from him, one by one, the bless-
ings of his life, crushing the impious heart which had reviled His attributes
and denied His existence? Or was He indeed "so long suffering," so
"plenteous in mercy," that He would prove even to him that His might
was the might of a Saviour?
A SOIJTHERIT HOME.
Home ! Home ! I have had too many resting-places in my not very
long life — this is my twentieth birthday — but I have had, I can have, but
one home. For eight years I have not seen it with the bodily eye, and
yet how vividly it stands before me ! A week ago, I determined to paint
it, and the picture, to which I have given every moment of leisure, is
done ; here in this record of thought and feeling meant only for
176 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
myself, I may saj what I truly think, that it is well done ; but 1 am
not satisfied.
There is the very beach on which I gathered shells with my faithful
nurse, my kind, devoted Charity. To the eastward, the blue waves are
lifting their white foam-crests to the sun; inland, I can distinguish amid
the mass of verdure which marked the almost tropical luxuriance of St.
Mary's Isle, the glistening leaves of the orange-trees only half concealing
their snowy flowers and golden fruit, and the darker green of the old
oaks, "the king of forests all," from whose giant boughs the long pen-
dent moss suspends its floating drapery of silvery grey. Within the circle
of those live oaks, rises the home which sheltered my orphan childhood ;
a frame building, two stories in height, and surrounded by a piazza, whose
pillars wreathed with roses, honey-suckles, and woodbine, gave something
of airy brightness to what would otherwise have been without ornament
and grace.
VIOLET ; OR THE CROSS AND CROWN.
Mr. Devereus went to his little bed, up stairs, with a pleasant feeling
that he had this night done the work appointed to him by heaven. With
loving thoughts of her who was now associated with every noble endeavor of
his life, with pleasant dreams of a blissful future spent with her — dreams
with which the storm-sounds mingled strangely, seeming to give intensity to
his enjoyment of their perfect peacefulness — he fell asleep. When he awoke,
the dull grey light of the morning was shining in at his little window, and,
even with consciousness half restored, the noise of loud voices below him
mingling with the raging of the storm, made him start up and look out.
Oh, for the pencil of a Salvator, to present the scene on which he gazed !
The mad waters, white with the foam of the breakers, rushed hissing and
roaring, far up the beach, looking, at times, as if they would dash themselves
into the very window at which he stood, while the wild winds flung their
spray far, far beyond. On the beach were men and women, shrieking,
screaming, fighting, plunging into the roaring waves to snatch a trunk, a bale
of goods, a keg, as' it floated up amidst broken spars and timbers ; and. Oh,
horror ! were those dead bodies ? Dimly seen at one moment, completely
shut out by the driving rain and spray at the next, seeming so near the shore
that Mrl Devereux believed he could swim to it, lay the ship, or rather the
MARIA J. Mc IN TOSH. 177
remains of it, careening to the shore till the water nearly reached the top of
its leeward bulwarks, and its one mast scarcely maintained an angle of forty-
five degrees with the horizon. The stern, and even so far forward as the
mainmast, was either already gone, or lay so deep that tlie sea broke over it
continuously. An instant had been enough to give Mr. Devereux the main
features of this scene, and, hastily flinging on his clothes, he sprang down the
steps, and emerged among the excited actors on the beach. He found Ben
Ham and Mike among the most eager of them, though obliged to fight, not
with the elements only, but often with the angry men around them for their
possessions. Listening to the outcries against them, he soon discovered that
no suspicion was entertained of their agency in extinguishing the light, last
night. He afterward learned that it was the custotn for the one first on the
ground in the morning to do this ; and that he who had found it done this
morning supposed, naturally enough, that another had been before him, and
in the following excitement, no inquiry had been made. For Mr. Devereux
himself, there was but one thought, one excitement, in this scene. Were
there lives on board that ship which might yet be saved? He shouted the
question into the ears of more than one, but could obtain no answer ; none
seemed to have thought of it. He rushed into the house for a glass which
always hung in Dick Van Dyke's cabin, and, finding a rest for it, he kept his
eye steadily directed to the wreck for several minutes. Suddenly throwing
the glass aside, he sprang down to the shore, and seizing Ben Ham, shouted,
" There are living creatures on that wreck — a man and a woman! Let us
try to save them ! A hundred dollars for you, if we bring them safe to
land."
A hundred dollars ! It seemed a fortune to the wrecker. He looked
around him carefully, measured the distance to the wreck with his eye, noted
the direction of the wind and the height of the tide ; then, shaking his head,
sent back the cry, "Ef I'd more 'an one life, I'd try."
" And shall we stand here, like cowards, and see a woman die before us ?"
cried Mr. Devereux, excited as he had never been in his whole life before.
" I will not do it. at any rate ! Have you a mortar here ? Perhaps we may
send a rope on board ! "
There was none.
" "Where is the nearest life-boat? I will go in her alone, if no one of you
is man enough to aid me !"
On that whole coast, from Sandy Hook to Cape May, there was not a
life-boat.
12
178 WOMENOFTHESOUTH.
"A rope! Bring me a rope! I will swim out witli it!" he cried, in
desperation.
There was no rope to be found fitted for such a purpose.
'^ Is there nothing by which life can be saved? There! there! do yoa
see that woman ? Must she die before us ?"
Look, gesture, the sharp agony in his voice, more than his words, awoke
some responsive feeling in two or three of the women among his auditors.
" There's the yawl in the lagoon," cried one ; " I guess she couldn't upset
easy."
" She wouldn't upset, but she'd go to pieces in five minutes in sich a sea,"
rejoined Ben Ham. Mr. Devereux did not hear, or would not heed.
"Fifty — a hundred dollars for every man that will help me launch that
boat, and row her to the wreck !" he shouted.
" Ef the boat was yere, an' 'twas ebb tide, we might try," said Ben Ham ;
"but it's up in the lagoon, an' we'd be tell next week rowing to the inlet and
up yere."
" Why not drag it across the beach ?"
" A heavy, six-oared yawl 'cross this san' half a mile ?"
A cart was at this moment driven uj) from Manasquam, whose inhabi-
tants had seen the wreck, and were coming to put their sickles into the
horrid harvest. Mr. Devereux seized the driver, made a bargain with him.
for his horse, found his own driver and secured his team, and in less than an
hour the yawl was lying on the shore. But it was still flood tide. The tide,
however, was just on the turn. In two hours, even in an hour, it would be
strong ebb. The wind would probably lull then, and there would be a
chance, at least, of success in their efforts. ISTow ' there was none. Mr.
Devereux was obliged to yield, though he questioned, sadly, " Will the wreck
last till then ?" He would willingly, with his present excited feelings, have
accepted the greater risk for himself of earlier action; but what could he do
with such a boat without aid ? The interval was passed in doing everything
possible, at such a time, to strengthen the boat against the action of the
waves. The time seemed ages to Mr. Devereux. Again and again he con-
sulted his watch, again and again pointed the glass to the wreck, and searched
for those who were waiting there face to face with death.
The tide had been running out for about an hour and a half, when he
sprang from the glass to the group at work upon the boat, crying: "There
is not a moment to be lost! The man has jumped overboard, and is swim-
ming to the shore ! He would not have done this, had not the wreck been
MARIA J. McINTOSH. 179
parting ! "We must be ofif now or never ! I am a good coxswain myself. I
have lield the helm in a sea as rough as this, and come safe to land ! Who
are the best oarsmen among you ?"
He spoke to Ben Ham, who pointed out five besides himself, as entitled
to this honor. Mr. Devereux called them around him. "Now, men!" he
cried, "You ought to be brave, for you are Americans! I am an English-
man, and I am going to that wreck ! Will you let it be said that an English-
man is braver than Americans ? A hundred dollars to every man of you
that will follow me!'' He sprang into the boat, shouting; "Huri*a for
America ! Hurra for a hundred dollars !"
He had suited his speech to his auditory, and every man he had selected
sprang in after him and seized an oar. " Something to bale with !" cried Ben
Ham, putting his hands up to his mouth for a trumpet, and Eat}^ threw
them a tin pail.
The tide was in their favor, the wind against them. This opposition,
though the wind had fallen considerably, created a fearful sea. The broad,
flat-bottomed yawl it would be scarcely possible to upset, but it would
require the quick eye and hand of a master steersman to prevent her being
"filled by the pursuing waves, and, rowing heavily under .any circumstances,
with the wind against them, their progress must be slow. Mr. Devereux's
brow grew stern, his lips compressed, his eye fixed, as their boat hung on
the crest of a mountain wave for one brief moment, then toppled down to
mount the precipitous side of another. In the second in which it reached
the depth between, lay their great danger. They soon encountered another
peril. They were among the drifting spars and broken timbers of the wreck.
A collision with a heavy timber would be a fearful trial to their boat.
He must change his course ; he could not steer directly across the waves, as
he had hitherto done, to prevent her encountering their full power on her
broadside. With a resolute spirit and a firm hand, though with an eye that
saw all the danger ; the change was made — they were out of the line of the
wreck.
"Look there! It's Dick Van Dyke!" shoiited one of-the men.
On the very crest of a wave, about twice an oar's length from their
course, rose the head of a man — the face turned directly to them, and the
wild, staring eyes seeming to entreat their aid. Mr. Devereux could not
resist their appeal, though he saw the danger ; the boat veered, and at the
same moment a huge wave broke over her, and nearly filled her with
water. There was a simultaneous shriek from the men ; but above the
180 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
hoarse shriek, and the hoarser roar of the waves rose the shout of the master
spu-it — "Ham, bale the boat! Use your oars, men — all is safe!"
The prow was again turned to the wave, and Dick Van Dyke could be
seen no more. He must be left to his fate.
" Must be the Edward an' Mary. Spriggins tells me he was gone in her
to bring his darter back," said one of the men.
"What darter — the lady?" asked Ben Ham, who sat nearest to Mr.
Devereux.
" Yes; he an't got no other darter, as I knows on."
"O, Mr. Duvo!": — Ben turned to him, but he proceeded no further.
There was something in that face, in those eyes, which told that he had
heard and comprehended, and which at the same time rendered any words
on the subject from another well-nigh impossible. His eyes were fastened
upon that swaying wreck, yet, as if by a species of intuition, he guided the
boat unerringly along the only safe course. Thousands of drowning men
might pass him now — he would not swerve a hair's breath from the line he
had marked out. Once only he removed his eyes from the wreck, to glance
at the rowers. They know it is to hurry them — they see it in his face,
though he speaks no word — and they bend to their oars. Thus they reach
the lee of the wreck. There is no time to lose, for the mast is rising and
sinking with every wave. Mr. Devereus springs from the boat, resting one
hand upon the low leaning bulwark, and he is on board. The very impulse
sends the boat off, and a wave dashes over her ; but she is brought up again,
and Ben Ham bales her out carefully, while another man catches a rope
suspended over the side, and reeves it through the block in the boat's
stem.
In the meantime Mr. Devereux has entered the forecastle. He sees no
one else ; his eye darts at once to that corner where she lies, as we have
already described her ; her white hands folded over the dark grey cloak,
whose hood is drawn closely around her white face ; her eyes are closed.
Peaceful as an angel's is the expression of that face. He bends over her, and
says " Yiolet " — there are volumes of tenderness in that one word so pro-
nounced. Her eyes unclose — a smile soft and happy as an infant's when it
awakes in its mother's arms, parts her pale lips. "I dreamed you were
come," she whispers, as he lifts her in his arms, and her head falls upon his
shoulder. He bears her out ui>on the deck, and, without relinquishing her,
descends to the boat, steadying his steps by grasping the rope with his other
hand. As he resumes his seat in the stern, he places her beside him, still
MARIA J. McINTOSn. 181
clasping her with one arm, while he prepares to guide the boat with the
other ; come what will, they will bear it together. He glances for a moment
at her as she rests, exhausted almost to unconsciousness, upon him. The
smile is still upon her lips, her eyes remain closed ; she asks not whither he
is bearing her ; she does not even look to see where she is ; she is with him
— with him — that is enough for her. She remembers others, however. ''Is
Luce here?" she whispers; "and Harrington?" He looks around; he sees a
negro man and woman seated down in the bottom of the boat, and he
answers, "Yes, they are here."
They are upon their homeward Avay — against the tide now. Every face
wears an intensely earnest expression ; they know that every stroke now is
for life. Her face is close beside him — her breath fans his cheek — yet he
never withdraws his eye for a moment from his course ; but he holds her
fast — his now, tor life or for death. Wave after wave rushes over the prow.
Harrington bales constantly ; they scarcely seem to move, so slow is their
progress. At length the haven is almost won ; but the boat strikes the sharp
point of a piece of timber, a relic of some former wreck imbedded in the
sand; there is a sudden crash, followed by a rush of water into the boat;
even here, just touching shore, the waves may ingulf them, and sweep them
back. But, no ! she has been recognized, and, with a thrilling cry of " The
lady! the lady!" the men — eight or ten in number, for many have come
from Manasquam — -join hands, and, rushing down into the foaming surf,
seize the boat, and drag it with its load on shore. All sternness has vanished
from Mr. Devereux's face now. Still clasping his sweet burden to his breast
he rises and bears her toward the house ; but his eyes are blinded by tears, and,
unable to speak, he grasps in silence the rough hands extended to him as he
passes. It is his only answer to their hurras and blessings. Every eye is
fixed upon the pale face resting on his shoulder ; and the women sob aloud
their thanks that she is safe, while men's voices, husky with emotion, are
heard uttering a fervent " God bless her!"
THE RIVEN" HEART.
A friend ! and thine the ruthless part
To break the bruised reed ;
Coldly to spurn the trusting heart
In time of deepest need.
182 W03IEX OF THE SOUTH.
To qnencii the lingering, quivering ray
Of Hope's just dying light,
Thus spreading o'er life's onward way
One deep unbroken night.
To pour upon the burning \.rain
The lava flood of scorn ;
With careless hand the nerve to touch
" Where agony is born !"
FROWN NOT.
Nay, frown not — though the world's cold look
My spirit heeds not now,
I cannot for a moment brook
A shadow on thy brow.
Dark clouds may speck the azure sky, .
Yet while in golden light
The sun looks forth — earth meets his eye
In smiles serene and bright ; —
But should some shadow o'er his beams
A passing vapor throw,
Quick fade from hills, and plains, and streams,
The gladness and the glow.
NO MORE.
Think on't no more ! Say, canst thou chain
The lightning's arrowy flash ?
Or with a silken curb restrain
The wave's tempestuous dash ?
Hast thou a magic wand to lay
The struggling winds to sleep ?
Or in its mid career to stay
The fierce tornado's sweep?
MARIA J. McIN" TOSH. 183
These done — yet dream not thou canft l)ind
The electric flash of thought,
Or still with charmed words the mind
By passion tempest- wrought !
ASPIEATIOi^^
As I watch the stars, I strive and strain
To fling from my soul the earth-fiend's chain;
But its hated links must clasp me round.
Till a mightier will than his be found
To set my struggling spirit free.
A star shed down its silvery light
On my pearly couch in heaven each night ;
And well, by its beam serene and cleaj,
I knew the spirit I loved was near.
Oh ! for one gleam of his cheering ray,
To drive earth's darkening shades away,
And set my struggling spirit free.
Star of my life ! again — again,
Thy radiant beams are round me poured.
My struggling soul has burst its cliain,
And now, like a joyous bird, Fve soared,
Upborne by thy mysterious power,
To my home of bliss — my heavenly bower.
Its flowers are fresh with the dews of night,
Its clouds are bright with the sun's last gleam.
And there I sport in thy golden light.
And win new strength from thy every beam.
Or sail on the winds in a cloudy car,
"With thee for my guide — my glorious star !
AiMEElA LINCOLN PHELPS.
It is a somewliat significant fact that, among all our dis-
tinguished literary women, onlj two have the honor of mem-
bership in the American Association for the advancement of
Science, and in these two both the North and the Soutli are
represented. In this connection, the names of Maria Mitchell^
the astronomer of Nantucket, and Almira Lincoln Phelps, the
educator and scientific writer of Baltimore, need hardly to be
specified.
Samuel Hart, the father of Mrs. Phelps, was a descendant
of Thomas Hooker, who was distinguished as the first minister
of Hartford, and the founder of Connecticut.
Almira Hart, the youngest of a large family, was born in
Berlin, Conn., in 1793, and began very early to develop a
fondness for intellectual pursuits. She was for years the pupil
of her elder sister, Mrs. Emma Willard, a name also well
known to fame. In 1811, she was placed at the seminary of
Miss Hinsdale, at Pittsfield, Mass., and soon after mari'ied
Simeon Lincoln, editor of the " Connecticut Mirror," in Hart-
ford.
Left a widow with two children at the age of thirty, all the
energy and earnestness of Mrs. Lincoln's character was called
in requisition. After settling satisfactorily the insolvent estates
of her husband and his father, she applied herself vigorously to
the study of Latin and Greek and the natural sciences, the art
of drawing and painting, and such other pursuits as she con-
eidered necessary to a thorough preparation for the work she
184
XLMIRA LINCOLN PHELPS. 185
contemplated — the education of tlie young. She then passed
seven years as pupil and teacher in the seminary of Mrs. Wil-
lard, at Troy.
In 1831, she married the Hon. John Phelps, a distinguished
lawyer and statesman of Yermont, in which State she resided
for the next six years.
In 1839, she accepted an invitation to preside over the
Female Seminary at West Chester, Pa. ; and in 1841, removed
to Maryland, where she and her husband united in establishing
the Petapsco Female Institute, one of the best-planned and
most flourishing schools of the country. The literary repu-
tation of Mrs. Phelps attracted hither the daughters of the
South and West, and no southern State, especially, has ever
been without a representative in the halls of Petapsco. Even
from Texas and the extreme bounds of Arkansas and Missouri,
came pupils who had read the books of Mrs. Phelps, or been
instructed by teachers whom she had educated, to test their
scholarship and finish their course at this fountain-head of
science.
While engaged actively as an educator, the literary labors
of Mrs. Phelps were confined chiefly to the revision of her
works, of which not less than one million copies have been
circulated. During this period, however, her pen was busily
employed for her pupils.
Blending the amusing with the didactic, she wrote stories
and Inlays for the holidays, which afibrded great entertainment
to her jjupils and their friends. Among her dramatic pieces,
" Dolly Ann Grimes " and " Tlie Reformation " were often
repeated and with no little eclat. " Ida Korman, or Trials
and Their Uses," was first read in weekly series to the young
ladies, but has since been published and widely circulated.'
To her former pupils in their distant homes, the salutary
precepts of Mrs. Phelps recur with great power. Cultivated
186 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
and disciplined "by lier system of teacliing, encouraged "by her
firm tnist in tlie finer instincts of tlieir natures, they remember
her earnest appeals with a gratitude that grows and deepens as
the years roll on. A note which we have just received from a
young Yirginian, once a pupil at Petapsco, pays noble tribute
to Mrs. Phelps as an educator, author, and Christian.
In 1849, Mrs. Phelps was again left a widow ; and in 1855,'
deprived, by a sad casualty, of an accomplished .and affec-
tionate daughter, whose influence and sympathy had lightened
not a little her weight of responsibilities, she addressed her last
class of graduates, and, deeply regretted by all, resigned the
position she had so long and honorably filled.
But in her quiet and elegant home in the city of Baltimore,
she still holds herself in tender relation to her pupils, and not
a week passes without bringing to her a kindly recognition
from some one of her large family of intellectual daughters.
Represented in every State of the Union by these flourishing
ofiBhoots of her institution, as well as by her valuable scientific
works — surrounded by cultivated friends, she retains her
youthful freshness and vigor, and demonstrates the art — so
nearly a "lost art" among American women — of "growing
old gracefully."
It is her greatest pleasure to do the honors of her house
and heart, not only to her friends, but to all who have any
claim upon her hospitality, especially to those who, like herself,
have done the world good service.
Mrs. Lincoln Phelps' published works are as follows :
" Lectures on Botany." ,
" Botany for Beginners."
" Lectures on Chemistry."
" Chemistry for Beginners."
" Lectures on !^atural Philosophy."
"Philosophy for Beginners."
ALMIRA LINCOLN PHELPS. 187
" Dictionary of Chemistry, translated from the French, -with History ol
the Science."
" Female Student and Fireside Friend."
" Caroline Westerly," a juvenile.
" Geology for Beginners."
Translation of Madame ISTecker de Saussure's " Progressive Education,"
■with "A Mother's Journal," by Mrs. Willard and Mrs. Phelps.
" Ada Norman ; or, Trials and Their Uses."
" Hours with My Pupils."
" Christian Households." Published for the benefit of the Baltimore
'' Church Home."
Her first publication, wliicli is widely known as " Lincoln's
Botany," lias held its place for twenty-five years as a favorite
text-book ; while lier " Dictionary of Chemistry " is in high
repute with the erudite as a work indicating much research and
scientific knowledge.
" Female Student and Fireside Friend " was adopted by
the Massachusetts Board of Education into their "School
Library," and has been received with great favor at home and
abroad.
A supplement to " Lectures on Botany for Familiar Teach-
ing of the -Natural Science," is now in press.
Mrs. Phelps edited for some time the " Petapsco Magazine,"
in which appeared various original articles in prose and verse.
In early life she was much given to poetical compositions,
but scientific proclivities beginning afterward to assert them-
selves strongly, she very wisely devoted herself to her specialty,
and secured a distinct and enviable fame.
A NEW ENGLAND FAMILY.
In New England, young ladies of education and refinement often take
charge of parlors, and sometimes assist their mothers in doing all the
household work. The many factories in the eastern section of our coun-
188 WOMEXOFTHESOUTH.
try, offer employment of an easy and profitable kind, so that few females
are willing to engage in domestic service when they can get better wages
in factories, and live independently as boarders to be waited upon. Thus
it happens that those who could hire servants are often obliged to do
their own work ; to look after their own houses and to prepare the family
meals.
But you should see how these things are managed, for I could not
otherwise make you comprehend the neatness, comfort, and order which
are often seen to prevail in those families in the eastern States, -where
the mothers and daughters do the household work.
Early on Monday morning all are up ; the mother, perhaps, engages in
preparing the breakfast, while the daughters commence the family's wash-
ing for the "week. They have, of course, all been careful not to make
unnecessary washing. Everything is life and activity — the cheerful voice
of singing from within, mingles with the matin songs of the birds with-
out. On this day, a simple dinner is provided, which requires little time
in preparation, but for which labor gives a keen relish. Before the
devotee of fashion has arisen from her disturbed and restless couch the
industrious mother and daughters have finished their washing — clothes,
white as the driven snow, are hanging upon the lines, and the kitchen
and wash room floors are nicely washed. Everything is put in place ;
our matron and her blooming daughters are dressed for company, and
very likely either receive some good neighbor, or go out and take tea
sociably with a friend. And such teas! The snow-white table-cloth, the
biscuit or rolls scarcely less white, the honey in its rich comb, the deli-
cious butter made by fair hands which are perhaps no less skillful to
play upon the piano than to perform domestic labor; the cake of several
kinds, the nice preserves, and the exquisite tea ; — this tea not put into a
teapot musty through neglect, nor decocted with water below the boiling
point; but made exactly right by the mistress of the house, who esteems
herself responsible for her housekeeping, and ranks neatness, care, and
economy among her chief duties.
"While you listen to my description, you think perhaps of a vulgar
mother and coarse-looking, unrefined daughters ; — would that I could take
you by clairvoyance to some one of the intellectual and agreeable families
in New England, where is realized the picture I have drawn of a home
of comfort and plenty.
In homes where there are no daughters, or they are sent abroad for
ALMIRA LINCOLN PHELPS. 189
education, a roung girl as domestic assistant is often received into tlie
family, and in many respects treated as a member of the same. She is
sent to the public school until she has obtained a good common English
education, rendering in the meantime most useful services to her kind
benefactors. She becomes an intelligent and useful -woman, and perhaps
marries the son of a neighboring farmer; and in a home of her own,
practises those lessons of industry and frugality to which she has been
trained. But this may be rather a picture of past times that of the pre-
sent. The great influx of emigrants in every part of our country renders
it more easy to obtain domestic servants, and Bridgets and !N"oras, with
their strong hands and red, brawny arms, are relieving their more deli-
cate mistresses of the burdens they formerly so cheerfully bore. TVhether
this is in reality increasing the happiness of society, is doubtful. The
feeble, sickly women of our country, drooping and nervous for want of
exercise, would indicate the negative.
SOUTHERl^ HOUSEKEEPERS.
Most of you young ladies from the southern States are not under the
necessity of performing household labor. It would be a mistaken kind-
ness in you to do the labor, and let the menials live in idleness. But
yet it is well for you to know what labor is, that you can feel sympathy
for them ; besides, your servant -may be sick, and humanity may require
of you to relieve her from duty, even if you should take upon yourself
the burden of her labor. Though not called upon, in general, to servjle
labor, you are not excused from a life of usefulness. No family can be
well ordered, or even comfortable, where the care, as well as the labor,
is thrown upon servants. I would hope that you have here learned to
respect the virtues of industry and neatness, and with your other accom-
plishments, have acquired habits of order and system, which in future life
will be more important to you than the merely ornamental branches of
education.
To woman it belongs to soothe the couch of sickness, to minister to
the wants of declining age, to diffuse around the fireside an air of cheer-
fulness and comfort, to watch over the wants of a household, and to
arrange and control in the little empire of home. First, as daughters you
should learn to minister to your parents, to anticipate their wishes, to
190 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
study tlieir happiness, eyen thongli it call for tlie sacrifice of your own
enjoyments. This picture may be far different from the one in your fancy,
where gay parties with all the excitements of a life of pleasure occupy
the foreground. But how absurd for any rational mind to consider the
mere accidental circumstances of life as its business or employment. It
was said by Hannah More, one of the greatest and best of women of the
past generation, that, "from the manner in which girls were brought up,
one would suppose that life was a perpetual holiday, and that the great
object was to bring them up to shine in its amusements and sports."
Accomplishments should be valued chiefly for their influence in ren-
dering the domestic circle more cheerful and refined ; most young ladies
seera to consider them as only intended to gain for them the homage of
admiration in society. The idea of merely entertaining their parents,
brothers or sister with their accomplishments would seem unreasonable ;
a loss of time and trouble ; a very dull affair. How false, how destruc-
tive to the happiness of domestic life are such low views of education.
Tou disregard the happiness of your parents when you fail to do your
duty. Tliey are distressed not so much on their own account, as that
you act unworthily ; they perceive in you a low standard of character, a
mean selfishness, which would seek your own gratification at the expense
of others- an exacting spirit which is never satisfied with indulgence,
and which ever cries, give^ gwe, caring little for the giver, but eager for
the gifts. May you all be led to consider whether you do not too often
give your best friends reason to think you are more anxiotls for the favors
you receive from them than to contribute to their happiness, or to ren-
der yourselves worthy recipients of their kindness.
TRUTH AND SINCERITY.
The essential virtues of a good and estimable character are truth and sin-
cerity. As counterfeit coin or bank notes are without any real worth, so
are all affected graces and assumed goodness destitute of any claim to our
regard. He who counterfeits money is severely punished by the laws of the
land; the artful and hypocritical are justly chastised by the contempt of the
good, and avoided by them, as the honest business man would shun such as
traffic in counterfeit money. But most persons wish to appear good and
amiable in the eyes of others. How shall this be accomplished? The
ALilIRA LIXGOLX rilELTS. 191'
answer is plain ; let all strive to render themselves such as thej "vvould be
esteemed ; to Tie in reality what thev would appear to be, and then there
would be no temptation to deceive, or put on the semMance of virtue.
Shakspeare makes Hamlet say, with honest indignation, " I know not
seems f happy those who are free from all hypocrisj^ and disguise, all seeming
to be what in reality they are not.
There is much in the conventional forms of society which leads to deceit,
and it should be guarded against. One can be civil and polite without
expressing warmth of feeling when it does not exist ; it is not necessary to
profess delight in meeting persons for whom we do not feel any particular
interest ; or to urge such to visit us, or to correspond with us. Are there no
young ladies who meet others with enthusiastic professions of regard, and
part from them as if they could not endure a separation, when in reality,
they can join in a sneer against those intimate friends ? and do they never
use the very confidence reposed in them against the unsuspecting and incau-
tious ? "Would that such evidence of duplicity were not but too common
even amongst those whose youth should be a pledge for artlessness and sin-
cerity ! The educator, like the i^hysician, must examine cases as they are ;
unfavorable symptoms cannot be overlooked if we would do our duty to our
patients — or our pupils ; and, morally speaking, the latter are too often found
affected by maladies which require firm and judicious moral treatment.
It is well for the young to resolve to practise what is right, without too
much anxiety to please others. The boundaries between right and wrong
are often obscure. Thus it is right that we should strive to render ourselves
agreeable to others, to say and do that which will make them satisfied with
themselves and with us, as far as we can do so without being insincere ; but
there are some who cannot be happy imless they are flattered ; praise is the
incense which their liearts crave, and unless this is constantly ottered, they
are restless and dissatisfied ; but the appetite for praise grows on what it
feeds, and can' never be satisfied. If we have a friend, then, who is not
happy unless flattered, it is our duty to withhold the poison, and to seek by
a sincere and honest treatment to bring her back to a more healthful state of
mind. For a time we may be the less agreeable to her ; it may be that a
lasting prejudice may spring i;p against us on account of our sincerity, but if
so, we should be satisfied that we have done our duty.
Flattery among school-girls is too common a vice. If one desires the
love of another, she too often commences by studying her weak points ;
and in how many are these self-love, fondness for admiration, and an
192 TTOMEN OF THE SOUTn.
eager desire for preeminence. If the young girl is vain of beauty, the
flatterer tells her of her personal attractions, what she has heard such, a
one say of her eyes, her features, her complexion, or her form. If she is
proud of family connections, or fortime, the flattery is of a diff'erent kind.
The flatterer talks of distinguished persons and the advantages of good
family, wonders how such and such ones should presume to place them-
selves on an equality with those who are entitled to exclusiveness, inti-
mates that she is determined to associate with none but those Avho have
certain claims to family distinction; aU this, of course, feeds the vanity
of her who is thus sought out by one who is so very particular as to her
society.
Again, another young lady who has no pretensions to beauty and makes
none as to family or fortune, fancies herself highly gifted in 'intellect ; she
likes to be told of her talents, and is inclined to love those who praise them,
or who report the praises of others.
What a sad picture is that of one rational and responsible being, for
selfish purposes, acting on the bad propensities of another, where lying,
insincerity, and flattery are seen ministering to disgusting vanity or pride !
If you desire true friendship, seek out a virtuous and sensible person, and
let your intercourse be marked with honest sincerity. Despise that regard
which must be purchased by a sacrifice of truth, or the ministering to the
follies and weaknesses of another. One who is truly worthy and noble
should avoid a flatterer whose selfish designs may be easily penetrated.
When we hear unpleasant truths, we should reflect that those who utter
them can have in this no motive but our own good — unless, indeed, we have
reason to believe that they desire to humiliate us in our own eyes, or to
render us unhappy ; in which case, we cannot consider them as our friends ;
but the poet says :
. " Tour defects to know
Make use of every friend and every foe."
It is one of the most sacred duties of friendship, though often a painful one,
to point out faults to a beloved friend ; and when you have an associate
whom you believe to be your friend, though not afraid to speak the truth,
however disagreeable it may be to you to hear it, you cannot too highly
value her friendship.
ALMIRA LINCOLN PHELl-S 193
BELLES.
We know full well that nothing is more illusive than the idea of the great
interest which the world takes in the affairs of a particular individual, and
that one, a young girl, with merely youth and youthful attractions to recom-
mend her to notice. For the want of something better to talk about in
fashionable circles, the appearance of a new candidate for admiration may be
made a subject of conversation ; but will she receive unqualified praise ? If
beautiful, she may be condemned as vain ;' if graceful, as affected in manners ;
if frank and ingenuous, she will likely be called imprudent; and if cautious,
artful. If, to be agreeable to the many, she talk on common-place topics, she
may pass for one who has a shallow intellect ; if she introduce into fashion-
able circles, literary or religious subjects, she will probably be shunned as
pedantic or bigoted. If she should have admirers, she will be called a flirt ;
if she should have none, she will be pitied for her supposed disappointment
and mortification. If the young lady who has anticipated so much from her
introduction into the world of fashion, or what is called society, possess
sensibility and principle, she wiU soon perceive that there is a competition
going on there, in its nature calculated to chill the better feelings of the
soul ; that under the mask of affected benevolence, and desire of promoting
mutual happiness by bringing to the common stock pleasure and enjoyment,
are concealed frightful passions, " envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncho,-
ritableness," from which we daily pray to be delivered. After the labor of
so many years, such great expense of time and money to gain accomplish-
ments that may secure triumph and admiration, after the toil and anxiety of
preparing the person for the public, the young lady, perhaps, finds herself
receiving far less attention than some one whom she regards as her inferior ;
innocent, that one may be, of any intentional wrong to her, but mortification
will naturally give rise to jealousy, which begets hatred.
Allowing, however, that our young lady is decidedly the Tjclle of a short
season or two, that she has had a triumphant entree into the highest circle,
is regarded as the brightest star in the constellation of fashion, can we sup-
pose that even for that brief period she is happy? If she possess penetration,
she will see how heartless and vain are the homage and admiration of those
who, like the butterfly, flit from flower to flower, selfishly seeking pleasure
and amusement, wholly inditTerent as to the effects of their heartless atten-
tion upon the future happiness of those whom they may choose to flatter.
13
19-1 WOME>f OF THE SOUTH.
For it must be remembered that in the world of fashion and fully, are seldom
found men of true sensibility and scrupulous morals. The game that is there
going on, forbids such from becoming initiated in the mysteries of " high
life^^'' -where weak principles are tested by the artful and designing, where
fortune attracts, and where modest merit, unaccompanied by wealth or somo
prestige which is an equivalent for wealth, can find no place. TVe will sup-
pose our young lady has become quite accustomed to fashionable life ; she
has gained her place among its votaries — but what has she not lost !• Late
hours, iiuprudence in dress, exposure to the impure atmosphere of gaslights
and crowded assemblies, and the dainties of luxurious banquets, at length
undermine her health. The freshness of youth has faded, her spirits are no
longer buoyant ; she has grasped the thorn, but the rose has withered. And
the warmth of affection, the simplicity of heart and the conscientiousness of
principle which were seen' in the school-girl, are they, too, lost ? We fear so,
and yet they may have only been blighted ; a timely escape from the ways
of folly, and a return to healthful influences, may revive the aflfections, and
rouse the conscience.
In that career, so deleterious both to the physical and moral nature, the
aspirant for fashionable distinction, before becoming a victim to the world,
may be early arrested by the voice of conscience and withdraw herself from
evil influences, while she has yet the power of regaining, in some degree,
what she has lost ; — before she shall have suffered the chagrin of being con-
sidered passee, neglected by the world for which she had sacrificed herself.
How pitiable the woman of the world, whose seared heart and vitiated taste
render her incapable of enjoyments which spring from intellectual pursuits,
or the exercise of the affections ! If single, she will be forlorn and neglected ;
if a wife and mother, how much to be commiserated are those who are
dependent for happiness or virtue on her faithfulness or conscientiousness.
r yUt 9/t^^t-<.-*^ {J .(/i/U^t-t^T^
/ .MAiti-ON tlAT-OAJ^n j
C.B.Ricliardsoa,PiLblislier
MARION" HARLAND.
PopuLAniTT is not always a test of worth or genius. A tale
of " love and murder," tliat sets everj particular hair on end,
maj have a sounding sale, without possessing one element of
true greatness. But when a story of home life, like " Alone,"
or " The Hidden Path," finds the spring of popular favor, we
naturally cast about for the secret of its power, and are forced
to acknowledge a magnetic current from the heart behind the
book.
Marion Harland has large humanity. Her creations are
thoroughly liuman ; and by knowing and loving the human,
she has no difficulty in threading her way into human hearts.
Mary Virginia Terhune is a native of the Old Dominion,
whose name she is still jDroud to bear. Although born in the
country, the greater part of her life was passed at Eichmond.
Her father, a respected merchant of that city, is a lineal
descendant of the Puritans ; her mother of the earliest settlers
of Yirginia. The families sacredly cherish the names, deeds,
and homesteads of their ancestors ; and our author's hearty par-
ticipation in the feelings of both the ]!^orthern and Southern
branches, is undoubtedly the cause of her freedom from all
sectional prejudices. Her liberality of sentiment with regard
to the vexed question of the day, is one element of her popular-
ity as a writer.
At a very early age, the dream of the imaginative child was
authorship ; a hope that steadily grew into a purpose, which
195
196 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
was followed up with an energy that never flagged. At the
age of fourteen, without confiding to anj one what she con-
sidered a daring project, she contributed, under an assumed
name, a series of papers to a weekly city journal. The notice
which these sketches attracted, the conjectures as to their
authorship, and the commendations bestowed upon tliem by
those whose opinion she valued, were precious encouragement
to the youthful writer. From that time her pen was never idle,
though a large proportion of its productions met no eye except
her own. Tales, essays, and poems, were sent, from time to
time, anonymously, to the different periodicals of the day, and,
stimulated anew by the approval of her readers, she wrote and
studied with greater assiduity. It is well to mention this, as a
hint to young and ardent aspirants for literary honors, who are
apt to attribute to natural gifts the vigor of expression and
grace of style, which are only acquired by diligent practice.
A fagitive sketch, written by our author at the age of six-
teen, and entitled, " Marrying Through Prudential Motives,"
appeared a year or two later in " Godey's Lady's Book," and
had a somewhat remarkable career. From the " Lady's Book "
it was copied into an English paper, thence transferred to a
Parisian journal, re-translated for another English periodical,
and finally copied in America, and extensively circulated as an
English story, until claimed by Mr. Godey as one of his publi-
cations.
In 1854, assuming the name of Marion Harland, our author
sent out her first published volume, whose success, without pro-
fessional sponsors, or the blast of professional trumpets — sur-
prised no one more than herself. Long after the first appear-
ance and furore of " Alone," a new American edition went to
press, regularly every few weeks, while it was re-printed with
nearly as much eclat in England, translated into French, and
found its way into most of the large cities of Europe.
MARION HARLAND. 197
Two years later, " The Hidden Path " was brought out "bv
Messrs. Derby & Jackson, with equal success, and the" addi-
tional honor of a Leipsic edition, being the only work by a
female writer in a collection of " Standard American Authors,"
printed by an enterprising house in that cit}^ This is, unques-
tionably, the most effective book which Marion Harland has yet
given to the world. The lines of character are fine and true,
and evince a deepening insight. In Bella Conway and Isabel
Oakley — noble women of distinct types^the shades of per-
sonality are admirably disposed for contrast. We own to a
wicked enjoyment of the analysis and demolition of Snowdon.
It is done deftly and thoroughly ; we have no tender mercies
for the benignant face, oily tongue, and foul heart of the
Pharisee. The story is, perhaps, a little overcharged with
prominent personages, confusing somewhat the lines of the
plot ; but that is a fault of fullness, not of poverty. The
book appeals to the best feelings of our humanity, and its
lessons of self-sacrifice and Christian faith, alone, make it more
than worthy of its popularity.
The following generous notice of this work, from the pen of
one * who judges with the head as well as the heart, discerns,
in a small space, its best elements :
" Let this noile production (we use the adjective in its fullest sense) lie
upon the table, enliven the hearth, be the household companion of every
true-hearted Virginian. Foster this gifted daughter of the South with the
expanding sunshine of appreciation, the refreshing dews of praise — stimulate
xmdeveloped genius, which has never yet ' penned its inspiration,' to walk
in her steps, emulate her achievements, and share her honors — let Virginia
produce a few more such writers, and the cry that the South has no literature
of its own is silenced forever ! The ' Hidden Path ' is a work that North
or South, East or "West, may point to with the finger of honest pride, and
say, ' our daughter ' sends this message to the world — pours this balm into
* Anna Cora Ritchie.
198 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
wounded hearts — traces for wavering, erring feet, this ' Hidden Path,'
wMch leads to the great goal of eternal peace."
In 1856, Marion Harland married tlie Rev. E. P. Terhune,
then tlie pastor of a Yirginia cliiireli. But amid tlie duties
of her new sphere, the pen was not neglected.
In 185T, her publishers brought out " Moss Side " her third
work. Although it appeared upon the very eve of the great
commercial panic that for a time paralyzed trade of every
description, its success was as marked as that of its predeces-
sors.
As a magazine writer, Marion Harland's services have been
solicited with eagerness and persistency. Her contributions to
" Godey's Lady's Book " — the only periodical for which she
has written regularly — would fill a volume nearly as large as
any of her continuous tales.
In 1859, her husband was called to the pastorate of the
First Reformed Dutch Church in ITewark, New Jersey, and
removed with his family to that place. Among the people
of his new charge, the Southern wife found a welcome so
warm, and hearts so congenial, as hardly to permit a sigh
for the birth-place and tried friends she had left behind.
Another book from her busy pen is in preparation, and
will probably appear in the autumn of the present year.
We have seen but few specimens of the poetry of this
writer, but remember among them two or three that have in
them the ring of true metal.
It is said that a more complete refutation of the slanders
generally heaped upon " literary domesticity " can scarcely be
imagined, than that afforded by the happy home of our author.
United to a man of ripe scholarship, sound judgment, and tastes
Uiid sympathies kindred with her own, she invariably appeals to
him in all important matters. His is the first reading and only
revision of her MSS., before they are given into the hands of
MARION HARLAXD. 199
the printer. 'No less blessed as tlie motlier of two interestino-
children, her lines of life seem to have fallen in sunniest places.
If it be true that the nightingale sings sweetest with the thorn
in her breast, and our divinest utterances are born of sorrows,
Marion Harland may not yet have sounded the depths of her
capacity.
CAMP-MEETING SCENE.
"Behold Eocty Mount!" said Arthur, pointing to a rising ground, tufted
by a dump of oaks.
"Where is the church?" inquired Ida. "lean distinguish people and
horses, but no house."
" After we get there, I will lend you my pocket microscope," responded
Charley. The brown walls of a small building, in the centre of the grove,
were visible, as the road wound around the hill ; but its dimensions were
as great a puzzle as its absence would have been. Carry came to her aid.
" They preach out of doors, my dear."
*' Out of doors!" this was a charming novelty.
" 'The groves were God's first temples,' " she repeated softly, and Lynn
continued the noble lines —
" Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore.
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised ? "
Charley smiled dubiously, but held his peace. The crowd thickened with
their advance. Horses were tethered in solid ranks to the trees ; children
straying frightfully near to their heels ; wagons and carriages almost piled
upon each other ; and men, white and black, stood about everywhere. The
driver reined up, twenty yards from the arbor erected under the trees.
" Drive up nearer, Tom !" said Carry.
" He cannot," replied Arthur, letting down the steps. " Look!"
There was a quadruple row of vehicles on three sides of the arbor, the
fourth being, at considerable pains, left open for passage. Several young
200 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
men dashed to the side of the carriage, with as much emi>ressement as at a
ball, and thus numerously attended, the girls picked their way through the
throng and dust. No gentlemen were, as yet, in their seats, and our party
secured a vacant hench midway to the pulpit.
"Don't sit next to the aisle," whispered Arthur.
" "Why not ?" questioned Ida, removing to the other extremity of the plank.
" Oh ! it is more comfortable here. We will be with you again pre-
sently."
"That is not all the reason," remarked Carry, when he was gone. "This
railing protects us from the press on this side ; and our young gentleman
will not permit any one to occupy the stand witliout, but themselves."
" Will they not sit down?"
" No, indeed ! there will not be room. Then the aisles will be filled with
all sorts of people, and our dresses be liable to damage from boots and
tohacco juice."
" Tobacco juice!" was she in a harbarous country ! As Carry predicted,
their three attendants worked their way, between the wheels and the people,
to where they sat. Charley crawled under the rail, and planted himself
behind them.
"I can keep my position until some pretty girl dislodges me," said he.
" The denizens of these parts have not forgotten how to stare."
He might well say so. A battery of eyes was levelled upon them, wher-
ever they looked. The tasteful dress and elegant appearance ot the ladies,
and their attractive suite, were subjects ot special importance to the com-
munity at large. Although eclipsed in show by some present, theirs was a
new constellation, and they must support observation as they could. Thej
stood fire bravely ; Ida was most accustomed to it, and she found so much
to interest and divert her, that she became unconscious of the annoyance
after a little.
" Are those seats reserved for distinguished strangers ? have we not a
right to them ?" designating a tier in front of the speaker's stand.
" They are the anxious benches," returned Charley.
"Nonsense !"
" So I think. The brethren dissent from us. I am not quizzing. That
is the name."
"The mourners — the convicted occupy them," said Carry.
" Are they here ?" inquired Ida, credulously. It was preposterous to con-
ceive such a possibility in this frivolous, loud-talking assembly.
MARION HARLAND. 201
" Not now ;" answered Charley. " But when they crowd on the steam,
you will witness scores."
"Fie, Charley! it is wicked to speak so!"
" I am just as pious as if I did not, Carry. I'll wager my horse — and
head too — that by to-night. Miss Ida will agree with me, that these religious
frolics are more hurtful to the cause they are intended to advance, than fifty
such harmless affairs, as we attended on Thursday night."
" I am not solemnized yet," said Ida.
" You are as solemn as you are going to be. You may be excited, or
frightened into something like gravity. Two, three, four preachers ! That's
what I call a waste of the raw material. What a flutter of ribbons and fans !
The congregation reminds me of a clover field, with the butterflies hovering
over its gaily-colored, bobbing heads. Handsome ladies by dozens 1 This
county is famed for its beauty, and but one tolerable-looking man in its
length and breadth!"
" Why, there is Mr. Euston — what fault have you to find in him?"
"He is the honorable exception. Whom did you think I meant?" smil-
ing mischievously at Carry's unguarded query. " Art, here, is passable
Modesty prevents my saying more, as we are daily mistaken for each other.
The music strikes up ; — rather quavering ; they are not in the ' spirit ' yet.
They never get to the 'understanding.' I must decamp. Those fair ones
are too bashful to look this way, while I am here."
He was on the outside of the rail, sedate and deacon-like, in a minute.
IJnsuited as his remarks were to the time and place, they were less objec-
tionable than the whispers of the ladies Avho dispossessed him; — critiques
upon Susan's beaux and Joseph's sweethearts ; upon faces, dress and deport-
ment ; a quantity of reprobation, and very sparse praises.
The preacher was an unremarkable man, who delivered, in a sing-song
tone, an unremarkable discourse ; opposing no impediment to the sociability
of the aforementioned damsels, except that they lowered their shrill staccato
to a piano. The gentlemen whispered behind their hats, notched switches,
and whittled sticks. The hearers from Poplar-grove, albeit they were gay,
youthful, and non-professors, were the most decorous auditors in their part
of the congregation. Another minister arose ; a man not yet in his thirtieth •
year, his form stooped, as beneath the weight of sixty winters. The crowd
stilled instantly. He leaned, as for support, upon the jjrimitive desk ; his
attenuated liands clasped, his eyes moving sloAvly in their cavernous recesses
over the vast assemblage. " And wliat come ye out into the wilderness for
202 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
to see?" he said, in a voice of preternatural sweetness and strength. "Aye!
ye are come as to a holiday pageant, bedecked in tinsel and costly raiment. I
see before me the pride of beauty and youth ; the middle-aged, in the strength
of manliness and honor, the hoary hairs and decrepit limbs of age ; — all
trampling — hustling each other in your haste — in one beaten road — ^the way
to death and judgment ! Oh ! fools and blind ! slow^worms, battening upon
the damps and filth of this vile earth ! hugging your muck rakes while the
glorious One proffers you the crown of Life !" The bent figure straightened;
the thin hands were'endowed with a language of power, as they pointed, and
shook, and glanced through the air. His clarion tones thrilled upon 'every
ear, their alarms and threatenings and denunciations ; in crashing peals, the
awful names of the Most High, and His condemnations of the wicked,
descended among the throng ; and those fearful eyes were fiery and wrath-
ful. At the climax he stopped; with arms still upraised, and the words
of woe and doom yet upon liis lips, he sank upon the arm of a brother
beside him, and was led to his seat, ghastly as a corpse, and nearly as help-
less.
A female voice began a hymn.
" This is the field, the world below, —
Where wheat and tares together grow ;
Jesus, ere long, will weed the crop,
And pluck the tares in anger up."
The hills, for miles around, reverberated the bursting chorus,
" For soon the reaping time will come,
And angels shout the harvest home !"
The ministers came down from the stand, and distributed themselves
among the people , bowed heads and shaking forms marking their path ; a
woman from the most remote quarter of the throng, rushed up to the
mourner's seats, and flung herself upon her knees with a piercing cry ;
another and another ; some weeping aloud ; some in tearless distress ; num-
bers knelt where they had sat; and louder and louder, like the final trump,
and the shout of the resurrection morn, arose the surge of song —
" For soon the reaping-time will come,
And angels shout the harvest home !"
MARION HARLAND. 203
Carry trembled and shrank ; and Ida's firmer nerves were quivering. A
lull in the storm, and a man knelt in the aisle, to implore "mercy and pardon
for a dying sinner, who would not try to avert the wrath to come."
Sonorous accents went on Avith his weeping petition ; prayijg for " the
hardened, thoughtless transgressors — those who had neither pan, nor lot in
this matter ; who stood afar off, despising and reckless." Agaic rolled out a
chorus ; speaking now of joyful assurance —
" Jesus my all to heaven has gone —
(When we get to heaven we will part no more,)
He whom I fix my hopes upon —
"When wc get to heaven we will part no more.
Oh! Fare-you-well! oh! fare-you-well !
When we get to heaven we will part no more,
Oh! Fare-you-well!"
Ida's eyes brimmed, and Carry sobbed with over-wrought feeling-.
Arthur bent over the railing and spoke to the latter. He looked troubled,
but for her : Lynn stood against one of the pillars which supported the roof;
arms crossed, and a redder mantling of his dark cheek ; Charley was cool
and grave, taking in the scene in all its parts, with no sympathy with any
of the phases of emotion. The tumult increased ; shouted thanksgivings,
and wails of despair ; singing and praying and exhorting, clashing in wild
confusion.
" You had best not stay here," said Arthur to Carry, whose stm^les for
composure he could not bear to see.
" Suffer me to pass, Dr. Dana ;" and a venerable minister stooped toward
the weeping girl. " My daughter, why do you remain here, so far from
those who can do you good ? You are distressed on account of sin ; are you
ashamed to liave it known? Do you not desire the prayer of Christians? I
will not affirm that you cannot be saved anywhere ; ' the arm of the Lord is
not shortened,' but I do warn you, that if you hang back in pride or stub-
bornness, you will be lost ; and these only can detain you after what yon
have heard. Arise, and join that company of weeping mourners; it may
not be too late."
Carry shook her head.
" Then kneel where you are, and I will pray for you.''
She dried her tears.
204 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" Why should I kneel, Mr. Manly ? I do not experience any sorrow for
sin."
"My child!"
" My tears are not those of penitence ; I do not weep for my sinfulness ;
I can neither think nor feel in this confusion."
The good man was fairly stumbled by this avowal.
" Have you no interest in this subject ?"
*' Not more than usual, sir. My agitation proceeded from animal excite-
ment."
" I am fearful it is the same ia a majority of instances, Mr. Manly," said
Arthur, respectfully.
'' You may perceive your error one day, my son ; let me entreat you to
consider this matter as binding upon your eternal welfare, and caution you not
to lay a feather in the way of those who may be seeking their salvation."
Arthur bowed silently ; and the minister passed on.
Dr. Carlton retired early that evening, with a headache. Mrs. Dana was
getting the children to sleep ; the young people had the parlor to themselves.
Charley was at tlie piano, fingering over sacred airs ; psalm tunes, sung by
the Covenanters, in their craggy temples, or murmuring to an impromptu
accompaniment, a chant or doxology. All at once he struck the chords
boldly, and added the full powers of the instrument to his voice, in the fine
old melody of " Brattle Street." Lynn ceased his walk through the room,
and united his rich bass at the second line ; Arthur, a tenor ; Carry and Ida
were happy to be j^ermitted to listen.
"There!" said Charley, "there is more religion in that hymn than
in all the fustian we have heard to-day ; sermons, prayers, and exhor-
tations. Humbug in worldly concerns is despicable ; in the church it is
unbearable."
" Consider, Charley, that hundreds of pious people believe in the prac-
tices you condemn. Some of the best Christians I know were converted at
these noisy revivals," said Carry.
" It would be miraculous if there were not a grain or two of wheat in
this pile of chaff. I never attend one that I am not the worse for it. It is a
regular annealing furnace ; when the heat subsides you can neither soften nor
bend the heart again— the iron is steel. What does Miss Ida say ?"
" That sin is no more hateful, or religion more alluring, for this Sabbath's
lessons ; still I acquiesce in Carry's belief, that although mistaken in their
zeal, these seeming fanatics are sincere."
MARION HARLAN D. 205
"You applaud enthusiasm upon other subjects, why not in religion?"
asked Lynn ; " if anything, it is everything. If I could believe that, when
the stormy sea of life is passed, heaven — an eternal noon-tide of love and
blessedness would be mine — a lifetime would be too short, mortal language-
too feeble to express my transport. There is a void in the soul which naught
but this can satisfy. Life is fresh to us now ; but from the time of Solomon
to the present, the worldling has nauseated at the polluted spring, saying
' For all his days are sorrow, and his travail grief ; yea, his heart taketh not
rest in the night.' I envy, not carp at the joys of those whose faith, pierc-
ing through the fogs of this lower earth, reads the sure promise — ' It is your
Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.' "
" You do homage to the beauty of the Faith, by whomsoever professed.
I note its practical eifects ; judge of its genuineness by its workings. For
example, the Old Harry awoke mightily within me, in intermissions, to see
Dick Rogers preaching to Carry, threatening her with perdition — she, who
never in her life committed a tenth of the sin he is guilty of every day.
He has been drunk three times in the last month ; he is a walking demijohn;
his hypocrisy a shame to his grey hairs. And James Mather — he would sell
his soul for a fourpence, and call it clear gain. Sooner than lose a crop, ho
forces his negroes to work on Sunday — can't trust the God of harvest, even
upon His own day. The poor hands are driven on week-days as no decent
man would do a mule ; he let his widowed sister go to the poorhouse, and
o'fered to lend John five thousand dollars, the next week, at eight per cent.
I have known him ever since I was a shaver, and never had a word from
him upon the 'one thing needful,' except at church. And he was in the
altar, this morning, shouting as though the Lord were deaf!"
"Charley! Charley!"
" Facts are obstinate thiftgs. Carry. Next to being hypocritical our-
selves, is winking at it in others. The church keeps these men in her bosom ;
she must not complain, if she shares in the odium they merit. They are
emphatically sounding brass."
" Let thorn grow together until the harvest," said Arthur. "It is a con-
vincing proof of the truth of Religion, that there are careful counterfeits."
"I do not impeach the 'truth of religion.' You need not speak so
reproachfully, Arthur. I believe in the Christianity of the Scriptures,
What I assail, is intermittent piety ; springs, whose channels are dusty, save
at particular seasons ; camp-meetings and the like ; men, who furbish up
their religion, along with their go-to-meeting boots, and wear it no longer.
20G WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Their brethren despise tliem as I do ; but tlieir mouths are shut, lest they
' bring disgrace upon their profession.' It can have no fouler disgrace than
their lives afford. I speak what others conceal ; when one of these whited
sepulchres lifts his Bible to break my head, for a graceless reprobate, I pelt
him with pebbles from the clear brook. Look at old Thistleton ! a mongrel,
porcupine and bull-dog, pricking and snarling from morning till night. A
Christian is a gentleman ; he is a surly growler. Half of the church hate,
the other half dread him ; yet he sits on Sabbaths, in the high places of the
synagogues, leads prayer-meetings, and weeps over sinners — sanctified
'brother Thistleton!' He thunders the law at me ; and I knock him down
with a stoui stick, St. John cuts ready to my hand; 'If a man say, I love
God, and hate his brother, he is a liar /' I hush up Rogers, with — ' No
drunkard shall inherit the kingdom;' and Mather, with, ' You cannot serve
God and Mammon.' They say I am a scoffer ; I don't care. Now," con-
tinued this contrary being, passing into a tone of reverent feeling, " there is
my kind guardian. I don't believe he ever shouted, or made a public
address in his life. He lives his religion ; a child can perceive that the Bible
is a ' lamp to his feet ; ' a piUar of cloud in prosperity ; a sun in adversity. I
saw it when a boy, and it did me more good than the preached sermons I
have listened to since. He called me into his study the night before I left
home, and gave me a copy of ' the Book.' ' Charley, my son,' said he, ' you
are venturing upon untried seas; here is the Chart, to which I have trusted
for twenty years ; and have never been led by it upon a quicksand. Look
to it, my boy!' I have read it, more because he asked it, than for its
intrinsic value ; that is my failing, not his. I have waded through sloughs
of theories and objections, but hold to it still. Especially when I am here,
and kneel in my old place at the family altar, hear the solemn tones that
quieted my boyish gaiety ; when I witness his irreproachable, useful life,
I say, 'His chart is true ; would I were guided by it !' No — no — Art. ! I
may be careless and sinful; I am no skeptic."
"A skeptic!" exclaimed Lynn. "There never was one ! Yoltaire was
a fiend incarnate ; a devil, who 'believed and trembled,' in spite of his hardi-
hood; Paine, a brute, who, inconvenienced b^ a soul, would not sink as low
as his passions commanded, tried to show that he had none, as the easiest
method of disembarrassing himself. That one of God's creatures, who can
look up to the glories of a night like this, or see the sun rise to-morrow
morning, and peep, in his insect voice, a denial of Him who made the world,
is demon or beast ; often both, ' Call no man happy till he dies.' Atheists
MARION HARLAND. 207
liave gone to the stake for their ojiinions ; but physical courage or the lieat
of fanaticism, not the belief, sustained them. We have yet to hear of the
infidel, who died in his bed,
' As one she wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and Ues down to pleasant dreams.' "
" It is a mystery that one can die tranquilly," said Carry.
"I have stood by many peaceful death-beds," returned Arthur. "I
never wish so ardently for an interest in the Redemption, as when I watch
the departure of a saint. One verse is in my mind for days afterward. I
repeat it aloud as I ride alone ; and it lingers in my last waking thought at
night :
* Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are ;
"While on his breast, I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there.' "
" And why do you not encourage these feelings ?" csked Charley, bluntly.
"I call that conviction; a difterent thing from the burly of this morning.
You want to be a Christian ; so do I sometimes ; but you are a more hopeful
subject."
" I am by no means certain of that. You would never abide with the
half-decided, so long as I have done. You are one of the 'violent,' who
would take the kingdom of Heaven by force."
"How strange!" said Charley, thoughtfully.
" What is strange ?" inquired his brother.
" Here are five of us, as well-assured of the verity of Christianity, and
God's revealed Word, as of our own existence ; the ladies, practising every
Christian virtue ; Lynn, prepared to break a lance with infidelity in any
shape ; you, like Agrippa, almost persuaded ; and I, stripping off the bor-
rowed plumage of those who have a name to live ; yet we will be content to
close our eyes in sleep, uncertain of reopening them in life ; unfit for Death
and Eternity!"
He turned again to the piano ; Arthur quitted the room ; Lynn gazed
out of the window, with working features ; Carry shaded her eyes with her
hand; Ida felt a cold awe creeping over her. ' Death and Eternity !' had
she heard the words before ? how out of place in the bright, warm life they
were leading ! Here were true friendships, tried and strengthened by years ;
208 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
young love, joying in Ms flowery course ; refined and congenial spirits; the
laxuries of wealth and taste ; how unwelcome the hand that lifted the drapery
which enveloped the skeleton! ' Death and Eternity !' The spell was upon
the scented air ; the moon threw shadows upon the grass, as ot newly heaped
graves ; and the vibrating chords spoke hut of the awful theme !
MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN".
She was writing on this afternoon. The window overlooked the ocean
— purpled and gilded in long, slow-moving lines by the sunset, and dotted
with white sails. The wind had breathed sluggishly ali day, but as the
"glowing axle" touched the water, a sudden breeze shivered the broad
beams drifting upon the ridges of the waves, into bright-hued pencils, and
sent the idle craft rocking through the brilliant confusion.
Isabel closed the desk. Her smiles, so frequent when there were those
by who prized their light, never visited eye or lip in solitude. She had
written earnestly — thought and feeling succeeding each other upon her coun-
tenance ; but the sportive grace with which she had worn her priestfess'
mantle, was no more. "Wrapping it carefully over her heart, she wrought
diligently — not joyfully. She maintained a stern guard over herself, lest one
drop of the wormwood of her cup should ooze into those she brimmed and
wreathed with garlands for others. She was not a sinless creation, imper-
vious to personal woes. The mortal rebelled at the blight of its best hopes ;
the woman wept over the. sadly-vacant pedestal in her heart of hearts. 'SVe
have seen in a nature as noble as Bella's, one love destroy every trace of a
former ; and this, by a merciful provision of Providence, is a general law of
foiled or mistaken affections ; but Isabella could not look forward to a similar
consolation. Her attachment to Frank Lyle had incorporated itself with her
character and being — a love as innocent and beautiful as an angel's ; not con-
cealed— because she saw not shame, but honor in it. She had never said—
"The end — what shall it be?" As they had always loved one another more
than all the world beside, they must continue the same through time and in
eternity. A less refined or more prudent Avoman would have analyzed this
feeling, and extirpated it before it had grown beyond her control — Isabel had
rested, without question or fear, in the conviction that she was as dear to
him as he was to her. She knew him for her soul-mate ; tlie man's duller
instinct erred. Upon her had come the penalty of his mistake, and she bore
it in silent fortitude. She did not delude herself with false philosophy —
MARION HARLAND. 209
unfounded hopes. She knew that at the close of life — come when it might
— the deserted chamber of to-day would be as empty as now ; that upon tlie
walls, the frescoes his hand had painted, would glow as freshly — yet the
world was not a desert. Looking to God for "strength to live," she threw
herself, heart and mind, into the work of increasing the happiness and allevi-
ating the woes of her kind. Her gift remained — spurned no longer that it
had been fatal to her most cherished joys, but valued and cultivated as her
comforter. Her writings gave no evidence of her changed life. She sang
still — " There is hope, and peace, and blessedness in store for you " — and
mufSed the plaintive echo, wailed up from the deep recesses of the woman's
heart — " but not for me!" She had no cause to waver in her trust in the
truth and goodness of lier brethren ; and every page and line inculcated the
enlarged charity, learned while sitting at the feet of Him, " who spake as
never man spake ;" and oh ! lesson fraught with reproof to thee, murmuring
misanthrope ! who suffered as never man sutTered.
The world cried, "Happy and fortunate!" the hypercritics and jealots
composing the minority, " only hoped her prosperity might endure." Even
the sharp-sighted and knowing ones, who make an author's published works
the data from Avhich they compute the trials and events of his personal his-
tory— who will have it, that this actual and private experience is the inkhorn
which feeds the morbid curiosity of their narrow, credulous minds; who find
no warrant within themselves' for believing that one can estimate the depth
and fullness of human love, by sounding the yet untroubled pool of his own
capacity for aiFection — that a nicely-strung and sympathetic instrument may
yield up sti-ains of melting woe, if the sigh of another's sorrow is wafted
across its chords — even they — the spiders among readers — surmised erro-
neously respecting the minstrel, upon Avhose harp-strings neither dust nor
rust ever accumulated. They were as ignorant as the printer, who grumbled
at a blur in the middle of a racy paragraph. What was it to him that a tear
had fallen there ?
The eagle was the eagle yet, although her wing might flag wearily ere
the eyrie was gained. Such a season was the present. The blended beauties
of sky and ocean saddened, instead of diverting her thoughts. Year after
year, Frank had viewed the scene with her ; this summer his place was else-
where. She imagined them both — himself and Alma — she, indescribably
lovely in her childish glee at having him near her, hanging on his arm,
gazing into eyes, full and .radiant with the most ardent love of his soul-
love she could only measure by hers, which was bestowed upon every
14
210 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
petitioner, and in nearly equal bounties. And sn^ift uprose the foe most
inimical to man's contentment — the phantom that oftenest drives the haunted
one to madness — "Might-have-been!"
NEMESIS.
The first scene was that over which the jesting criticism had begun ; a
chamber in the Castle of Lindenburg, the nun's portrait hanging against the
rear wall. A man, habited like an old retainer of the castle, entered from
the side. He had not crossed to the front of the platform, when a fiery flake
from above fell upon his head — another and another !^ and a second actor, the
"Raymond" of the dumb show, rushed forward and tossed his arms in fren-
zied gesticulation toward the spectators. Simultaneously with his appear-
ance, was heard from behind the curtain, the startling cry of " Fire!"
The crowd arose as one man, and there was a movement in the direction
of the doors.
"False alarm! There is no danger ! " shouted a strong voice above the
confusion — and "No danger! no danger!" was caught up and repeated by
many.
Katherine turned to the quarter from which the first voice came, and
saw, across the house, the speaker, who continued to vociferate the assurance
of safety ; and at his side, just opposite to herself, Malcolm Argyle, his eyes
eagerly fixed upon the curtain which had fallen at the alarm. In another
second he had precipitated himself over the low parapet of the boxes into
the pit, and, as a brighter stream of light flashed through the painted screen,
the cry of "Fire!" rang out again, echoed now by groans and shrieks, that
told the mad fear which seized upon every soul at the certainty of the
calamity.
Malcolm had dashed through the crowd in the pit — all besides himself
rushing to the door — and scaled a pillar into the box where stood the
Rashleighs — terrified, yet willing to listen to reason — while Mr. Tfickham
reiterated that the best chance of safety lay in presence of mind, and a steady
yet hasty progress toward the lobby.
"The pit!" said Malcolm, imperatively. "Lower the ladies, and then
leap yourselves into the pit ! "We can reach the outer door before the crowd
from the stairs blocks it up ! Now ! now .'"
He laid hold of Katherine's arm, and she felt, in his iron grasp, how
awful was his sense of their peril.
(
MARION HARLANB. 211
" I think, sir " — began Mr. Wickham.
" It is no time to think! /have thought!" said Malcolm, vehemently.
'•' Katherine, will you let me "
A wilder cry of horror, as the forked tongues of flame, with lightning
velocity, ran along the ceiling, cm-led and spouted and wrapped themselves
over the light boards that panelled the front of the boxes.
"There is but one way, now," and throwing his arm about Katherine's
waist, Malcolm plunged into the living current that surged impetuously into
the narrow, tortuous stairs and lobbies. Lieutenant Calvert caught up the
fainting form of his betrothed, and followed ; while the two elderly gentle-
men, breast to breast, fought bravely to win a path from death. Still, press-
ing as they thought the emergency, they miscalculated the swiftness of the
triumphant element. The piercing shrieks of the helpless creatures, who
were in the hindmost ranks, testified that they were already in its scorching
embrace, when the dazzling, furious glare grew suddenly dull, and a column
of pitchy smoke rolled along the roof, filled the dome, and, extinguishing
every light in its downward swoop — ^fell a black-winged Death, upon the
struggling mass of human beings. Screams and moans were stifled — stilled I
All that was left of vital fire within the inner walls, went out in one
agonized respiration as the victims entered into the poisonous cloud — ^hot,
reeking with oily vapors — ^as it were a breath from Gehenna itself.
In the lobbies and upon the staircase, the frantic struggles for life went
on in utter darkness. ^ Behind, the roaring, surging flame — before them an
impenetrable wall, and a staircase, piled high and higher with the bodies of
living and dead! Over these rushed on the trampling, wrestling crowd.
Strong men climbed upon the shoulders and walked upon the heads of the
compacted throng that still kept their feet ; women were crushed to death in
the press; children trodden to pieces. Still, the ties of j^ature were mighty.
Husbands upbore Avives with superhuman strength ; mothers held their
o:Tspring so tightly enclasped, that the tremendous force of the outward tide
could not tear them awny ; and fathers, with arms of stone and thews of
steel, lifted their sons above the pressure of shoulders and heads.
Katherine had spoken but once in the dreadful transit :
"My father!"
"Is an able-bodied man — you a feeble woman!"
He had no more breath to spare, even to console her. "When the cloud of
smoke fell, they were still some paces from the staircase, and at the inhala-
tion of the noisome vapor, Malcolm felt his stout heart give way. Casting
212 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Jhis eyes np in the darkness, he descried a faint glimmer of the sky through
a window. Summoning all the muscular energy that remained to him, he
threw himself against the lower sash. It fell outward, and the pure air of
heaven pouring in through the opening, hrought hack departing life and
hope to many besides himself. A cry of mingled joy and anguish went up
from the sufferers, and. there was an instant rush in the direction of the
casement.
"Trust me!" said Malcolm. "Tour safety is dearer to me than my
life."
Katherine felt herself raised in his arms as he spoke ; the cold wind blew
more freshly over her, and, realizing with a shudder, what was his desperate
resort, she shut her eyes, as he swung her clear of the building, and let
her go.
A pair of stout arms broke her fall. " All safe, missis ! Bless the Lord !"
said a tall negro, whose giant frame had not staggered under her descending
weight.
" Gilbert ! Gilbert Hunt I" calkd a voice from an upper window.
The man hallooed in reply, and hastened away. Catherine gazed with
clasped hands and dilated eyes, upon the casement from which she had been
lowered. By the light of the flames, now bursting through the roof, she saw
Malcolm maintain his stand within, against the crazed creatures swarming
over him ; saw him lower one and another quickly, gently as he had done
her ; heard the exclamations of thanksgiving to him and to heaven, as each
reached the ground in safety. From windows above and below, forms were
falling : — some headlong and shrieking ; some prone and unresisting ; some
with clothes on fire — and within that funeral pyre were her father and her
lover — while she must stand inactive — see all — hear all — and not stir to save
either ! A fiercer, more agonizing yell came from the imprisoned wretches,
marking, as she afterward knew, the sinking of the staircase, under its
accumulated load ; and, forgetting the self-command she had, until now, so
vigorously preserved, she cried aloud — "Malcolm! Malcolm! 0, come to
me!"
He heard — sent one hasty, troubled glance over the horrified faces flock-
ing about the inside of the window — extricated liimself from clinging hands
and crowding forms — and was upon the earth beside her!
"My darling! 2/0 ^^ are saved ! Thank God!"
He asked not Avhether he had the right. For one rapturous instant he
held her to his heart, as the fervent ejaculation passed his lips ; for one second
MARION HARLAND. 213
her arms were about Lis neck — her head upon his breast — and she started
up—
"My father! Have jou seen him ?"
"I waited for him as long as I dared! I trust he has escaped hj the
door. It is not safe to stand here ! See!"
The licking flames, now blent into one vast, quivering, swaying pyramid,
arose toward the strangely serene sky. There was no more sound of mortal
woe within those trembling walls. The unequal conflict was at an end.
The fire-fiend held high carousal where, one short quarter of an hour before,
I^eace, and pleasure, and joy — the enjoyment that "takes no thought for the
morrow " — had reigned supreme !
LOYE ME.
Thy heart is like the billowy tide
Of some impetuous river.
That mighty in its power and pride,
Sweeps on and on forever.
The white foam is its battle crest.
As to the charge it rushes
And from its vast and panting breast,
A stormy shout up gushes.
" Through all — o'er all — my way I cleave —
Each barrier down-bearing —
Fame is the gi:erdon of the brave,
And victory of the daring!"
While mine is like the brooklet's flow.
Through peaceful valleys gliding;
O'er which the willow boughs bend low
♦ The tiny wavelet hiding.
And as it steals on, calm and clear,
A little song 'tis singing.
That vibrates soft upon the ear.
Like fairy vespers ringing.
214 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" Love me— love me !" it murmtirs o'er,
'Midst light and shadows ranging,
"Love me," it gurgles evermore,
The burden never changing.
Thine is the eagle's lofty fligh^
"With ardent hope, aspiring
E'en to the flaming source of light,
Undoubting and untiring.
Glory, with gorgeous sunbeam throws
An Iris mantle o'er thee —
A radiant present round thee glows —
Deathless renown before thee.
And I, like a shy, timid dove,
That shuns noon's fervid beaming,
And far within the silent grove,
Sits, lost in loving dreaming —
Turn, half in joy, and half in fear.
From thine ambitious soaring,
And seek to hide me from the glare,
That o'er thy track is pouring
I cannot echo back the notes
Of triumph thou art pealing,
But from my woman's heart there floats
The music of one feeling.
One single, longing, pleading moan.
Whose voice I cannot smother —
" Love me — love me !" its song alone.
And it will learn no other 1
MARION HARLAND. 215
AT PEACE.
A pearly mist, like a young bride's veil,
Folds softly o'er the sea ;
And sportsome waves, that all the day,
Have flashed and danced in glee —
Each rippling smile now passed away
With the autumn sun's red glare —
Lie hushed — as happy children bow
At their mother's knee in prayer.
The same sweet calm is on my heart ;
The gently heaving tide
Bears now no trace of storm that swept
O'er it in angry pride.
The surface sleeps all tranquilly
O'er earth-born passions' grave.
And a gleam, like that of heaven's firs*" star
Is trembling on the wave.
Father ! I thank Thee ! though this light
Be not the roseate hue
That tinged with fresh and changeful shade,
My soul when life was new.
Though the foamy billows bound no more
In sunbright revelry ;
Nor echo back the tempest's shout
And wild wind's anthem free;
Though in the deep, I look in vain
For youthful visions fair —
Let the rich pearls of Faith and Hope
Lie fondly cradled there.
Oh ! may thy love, as twilight dews,
Upon my spirit rest.
And still that ray of heavenly light
Be mirrored in my breast !
EMMA D. E. K SOUTHWORTH
Among our impassioned wiiters, whose crowded , and
pungent lives seem to flow out resistlessly from their pens,
no woman's name is more electrical to the popular ear than
that of Mrs. ^outhworth. Yoluminous as her writings are,
embracing a wide personal and emotional range, we are told
that she has never yet drawn upon her imagination for the
basis of a single character. To this fact may be attributed
the power of her portraiture, and the spell Avhich holds her
readers.
Nothing is so strange as reality ; and Mrs. Southworth, in
bringing veritable men and women from the extremes of her
observation, and allowing them full scope for self-assertion, has
laid her stories open to the charge of unnaturalness. Then, too,
if she has not d/rawn upon her imagination, as . a pervading
element of her mind, it has surrounded and infiltrated her
characters. Peculiar circumstances having called into action
all the fire and force of her nature, she has poured herself out
through these living media, and their loves and hates have lost
nothing by the intense attrition.
She writes with great facility, and dashes off one book after
another with a rapidity almost incredible. In five years she
published eleven large volumes, but in doing this, upon tlie spur
of necessity, it was impossible to be just to lierself. These
works are full of vigor and dramatic interest, impressing one
always with that most excellent sense of a superabundance of
216
EMMA D. E. N. S 0 U T H VV O R l' H. 217
heart and brain in reserve, but tliej would gain mucli in a
careful revision. Sbe excels in lier delineations of negro
character, and her descriptions, of southern life and scenery are,
some of them, inimitable.
Emma D. E. ISTevitte was the eldest daughter of Captain
Charles L. ISTevitte, of Alexandria, Yirginia, and of Susannah
George Wailes, of St. Mary's County, Maryland. She was
descended from families of high rank in England and France ;
through her father, from Charles, Le Comte ISTevitte, and, on
her mother's side, from Sir Thomas Grenfeldt, a kniglit of the
time of James I. Her ancestors emigrated to this country in
1632, and were conspicuous in the American devolution. Her
father, who was a large importing merchant of Alexandria,
served at the head of a company of volunteers in the war of
1812, and received a wound from which he never recovered.
At the age of forty-five. Captain ISTevitte married his second
wife, a girl of fifteen, too young to be separated from her
widowed mother, who removed with them to Washington,
where they leased together the spacious house once occupied
by General Washington.
Here (says Mrs. Southworth) I vras born, on the 26tli of December, 1818,
in the very chamber once tenaated by General Washington. I was a child
of sorrow from the very first yeai» of my life. Thin and dark, I had no
beauty except a pair of large, wild eyes — but even this was destined to be
tarnished. At twelve months I was attacked with an inflammation of the
eyes, that ended in total, though happily temporary, blindness ; thus my first
view. of life was through a dim, mysterious cathedral light, in Avhich every
object in the world looked larger, vaguer, and more distant and imposing
than it really was. Among the friends around me, the imposing form and
benignant face of my dear grandmother made the deepest impression. .\t
three years of age my sight began to clear. About this time my only own
sister was born. She was a very beautiful child, with fair and rounded
form, rosy complexion, soft-blue eyes, and golden hair, that in after years
became of a bright chestnut. She was of a lively, social, loving nature, and.
vis V/OMEX OF THE SOUTH.
as she grew, won all hearts around her — parents, cousins, nurses, servants,
and all who had been wearied to death with two years' attendance on such
a weird little elf as myself — yes, and who made me feel it too.
I was wildly, passionately attached to my father, and even his partiality
in favor of my younger sister — ^his "dove-eyed darling," as he called her, did
not affect my love for him. But he was often from home for months at a
time, and all my life was then divided into two periods — when he was at
home, and when he was gone ; and every event dated from one of two epoch*
— -joyfully, "since father came home:" sadly, "since father went away."
But at last my father, who had never recovered from the effects of his wound,
got a cold, which fell upon his lungs. His health declined rapidly. My joys
and sorrows now took these forms — "Father is able to walk about!"
"Father is sick in bed?"
My father was a Roman Catholic, my mother an Episcopalian. This
accounts for what occurred about this time. One day my sister and myself
were dressed and taken into my father's room. We found all the family
assembled, with several neighbors, around our father's bed. The priest was
there in his sacred vestments. He had come to administer the last consola-
tions of the church to our father, and was now about to christen myself and
my sister by his dying bed. After these rites of baptism were over, we were
taken from the room, but not before our father had laid his dying hands
upon our heads and blessed us. I do not know how long it was after this,
or where we were standing, when some one— I know not who — came and
said, " Emma, your father is dead." I remember I felt as if I had received
a sudden, stunning blow upon the brow. I reeled back from the blow an
instant, unable to meet it, and then, with an impulse to escape from the cala-
mity, turned and fled — fled with my utmost speed, until, at some distance
from home, I fell upon my face exhausted, insensible. That is all I remem-
ber, except the dark pageantry of the funeral, which seemed to me like a
hideous dream. I was then about four years old, my sister one year old.
For months, and even years after, I ruminated on life, death, heaven, and
hell, with a painful intensity of thought impossible to describe.
After my father's death, my grandmother and mother were in very
straitened circumstances, and found it extremely diflicult to keep up the
style of living to which they had been accustomed. My grandmother had
some property that brought her in a moderate income ; they had besides the
house leased, and, for that day, very sumptuously furnished. My grand-
mother yielded to tha .advice of her friends, and received a few very select
EMMA D. E. N. SO'UTHWORTH. 219
boarders. But she -vvas'a lady of the lofty old school, and never could bear
to present a bill ; so the end of it was she gave it up in a year;
At the age of sis, I was a little, thin, dark, wild-eyed elf, shy awk-
ward, and unattractive, and, in consequence, very much — let alone. I spent
much time in solitude, revery, or mischief; took to attics, cellars, and cock-
lofts, consorting with cats and pigeons, or with the old negroes in the
kitchen, listening with open ears and mind to ghost stories, old legends, and
tales of the times when "ole mist'ess was rich and saw lots of grand com-
pany " — very happy when I could get my little sister to share my queer
pleasures ; but " Lotty" was a parlor favorite, and was better pleased with the
happy faces of our young country cousins, some of whom were always with
us on long visits. The brightest lights of those days were the frequent visits
we would make down into St. Mary's County, sometimes sailing down the
majestic Potomac as far as St. Clement's Isle and Bay, where we generally
landed, and sometimes going in the old family carriage through the grand
old forest between the District of Columbia and the shores of the Chesapeake.
"We often received visits also from our country kinsfolk — visits of months'
and even of years' duration.
At this time of my life, rejoicing in the light and liberty of nature, I
should have been very happy also in the love of my friends and relations, if
they had permitted it ; but no matter ! Year after year, from my eighth to
my sixteenth year, I grew more lonely, retired more into myself, until, not-
withstanding a strong, ardent, demonstrative temperament, I became cold,
reserved, and abstracted, even to absence of mind — even to apparent insensi-
bility. '
Let me pass over in silence the stormy and disastrous days 6f my
wretched girlhood and womanhood — days that stamped upon my brow of
youth the furrows of fifty years— let me come at once to the time when I
found myself broken in spirit, health, and purse — a widow in fate, but not
in fact — with my babes looking up to me for a support I could not give them.
It was in these dearest days of my woman's life that my author''s life com-
menced. I wrote and published "Retribution," my first hovel, under the
following circumstances :
In January, 1849, I had been appointed teacher of the Fourth District
Primary School. The school was kept in the two largest rooms in my
house, those upon the ground floor. I had eighty pupils. A few months
previous to this, I had Written a few short tales and sketches for the
220 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" National Era." It was while I was organizing my new school, that Dr.
Bailey applied to me for another story. I promised one that should go
through two papers. I called up several suhjects of a profoundly moral and
philosophical nature, upon which the very trials and sufferings of my own
life had led me to reflect, and from among them selected moral retribution,
as I understood it. I designed to illustrate the idea hy a short tale. I com-
menced, and somehow or other, my head and heart were teeming with
thought and emotion, and the idea that had at first but glimmered faintly upon
my perceptions, blazed into a perfect glory of light, but which I fear I have
not been able to transmit to others with the brightness with which it shone
upon myself. No, it was dimmed by the dullness of the medium. My story
grew into a volume. Every week I would supply a portion to the paper,
until weeks grew into months, and months into quarters, before it was
finished.
The circumstances under which this, my first novel, was written, and the
succes? which afterward attended its publication, is a remarkable instance of
"sowing in tears and reaping in j,oy ;" for in addition to that bitterest sor-
row with Avhich I may not make you acquainted — that great life sorrow —
I had many minor troubles. My small salary was inadequate to our comfort-
able support. My school numbered eighty pupils, boys and girls, and I had
the whole charge of them. Added to this, my little boy fell dangerously ill,
and was confined to his bed in perfect helplessness until June. He would
suffer no one to move him but myself; in fact no one else could do so with-
out putting him in pain. Thus my time was passed between my housekeep-
ing, my schoolkeeping, my child's sick-bed, and my literary labors. The
time devoted to writing was the hours that should have been given to sleep
or to !resh air. It was too much for me. It was too much for any human
being. My health broke down. I was attacked with frequent hemorrhage
of the lungs. Still I persevered. I did my best by my house, my school,
my sick child, and my publisher. Yet neither child, nor school, nor pub-
lisher received justice. The child suffered and complained, the patrons of
the school grew dissatisfied, annoying, and sometimes insulting me, and
as for the publisher, he would reject whole pages of that manuscript, which
was written amid grief, and pain, and toil that he knew nothing of— pages,
by the way, that were restored in the republication.
This was indeed the very melee of the " Battle of Life." I was forced to
keep up, struggling, when I only wished for death and for rest.
But look you how it terminated. That night of storm and darkness
EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 221
came to an end, and morning broke on me at last — a bright, glad morning,
pioneering a new and happy day of life. First of all, it was in this very
tempest of trouble that my "life sorrow," was, as it were, carried away, or
/ was carried away from brooding over it. Next, my child, contrary to my
own opinion and the doctor's, got well. Then, my book, written in so much
pain, published beside in a newspaper, and withal, being the Ji}'st work of an
obscure and penniless author, was, contrary to all probabilities, accepted by
the first publishing house in America, was published, and subsequently
noticed with high favor, even by the cautious English reviews. Friends
crowded around me, offers for contributions poured in upon me. And I,
who six months before had been poor, ill, forsaken, slandered, Tcilled by
sorrow, privation, toil, and friendlessness, found myself born, as it were,
into. a new life ;. found independence, sympathy, friendship and honor, and
an occupation in which I could delight. All this came very suddenly, as
after a terrible storm, a sun-burst.
So much of Mrs. Soutliworth's liistoiy we give in lier
own words, because in no otlier way could she be brought so
palpably before us. Through her sharp, nervous delineations
we trace clearly the mold of circumstance which gave shape
and direction to her career ; we better understand the growth
of her weird and vivid fancy ; we feel the iiery elements which
entered into her emotional nature, and became the pervading
characteristic of her works.
It is not stated in this sketch that the mother of our author
was married (a second time) to Joshua ^L. Henshaw, of Boston,
and that to him Mrs. Southworth is indebted almost entirely for
her education. Under his culture, vigorous shoots began to
show themselves in her mental soil, pricking the mold with a
force and positiveness which augured well for their future growth.
She was soon a leading scholar in his school, and from that time
continued steadily to advance.
Three years after the event which involved her "life
sorrow," as she sat, on a Christmas evening, broken in spirit
and hope, her little ones asleep beside her, suggesting painfully
222 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
their dependence, and her slender resources, she at last wandered
dreamily off into an old tradition of St. Mary's, which her mother
had recently related to her; and finding her sad thoughts
beguiled by its stirring incidents, began to wonder if she could
not render it, with equal interest, into a tale for publication.
The trial was made, and resulted in " The Irish E-efugee,"
which was accepted at once by the editor of the " Baltimore
Saturday Visitor," who very kindly wrote a note of encourage-
ment to the author. With this new impulse, she soon com-
pleted a second story, "The Wife's Yictory," and so entered
upon her literary career.
After dashing off a series of tales for the " ISTational Era,"
and attracting much attention by the electric vigor of her style,
writing all this time from an overcharged heart and brain,
without a thought of compensation, she was obliged to put by
the luxury of the pen, and give all her energies to her school
and her needle. Her funds were running low, her salary was
in arrears, winter was approaching, and her heart sank within
her. At this juncture, she was most agreeably surprised by a
visit from the editor of the "Era," who placed in her hands a
generous remuneration for past services, and engaged her as a
regular contributor. She at once commenced her third story,
" Sybil Brotherton, or The Temptation," intending to complete
it in one number ; but it grew at last to the length of a novel-
ette, and proved a stepping-stone to the continuous works which
have since distinguished her.
In 1S49, " Retribution " was reproduced by Harper &
Brothers. In no work of Mrs. Southworth's do we find a
stronger stamp of her peculiar genius. Long-pent emotions
pour through it like streams of lava. Her characters glow
with the white heat of her own experience. With such ele-
ments, the book could not fail to place the author at once in the
piiblic eye. Yet had those elements been retouched and toned
EMMA D. E. N. SOUTH WORTH. 223
when tlie white heat had passed, thej would have lost none of
their power, and detracted nothing from the fame of the author.
About this time, she became a contributor to the " Philadelphia
Saturday Evening Post," a relation which she sustained for
several years with pleasure and profit.
In five years, dating from the appearance of " Petribution,''
she wrote and published the following volumes : " The Deserted
Wife," " Shannondale," " The Mother-in-Law," " Children of
the Isle," " The Poster Sisters," " The Curse of Clifton," " Old
[Neighborhoods and [N"ew Settlements," "Mark Sutherland,"
*' The Lost Heiress," and " Hickory Hall." Since that time, a
handsome uniform edition of these works, with the addition of
two others, " The Lady of the Isle," and " The Haunted Home-
stead," have been brought out by T. B. Peterson & Brothers,
of Philadelphia. "With the advantage of this attractive presen-
tation, the books are still having a large and extended sale.
They have also been translated into French and German, and
iiave sold largely in London, Paris, and Leipsic.
Having thus, by her indefatigable efforts, achieved fame and
competence, Mrs. Southworth removed, in 1S53, to a charming
villa on the Potomac Heights^ at the west end of Georgetown.
Here, for six years, she resided with her children ; her home,
especially during the sessions of Congress, being the resort of
distinguished people from all parts of the Union. With these
social privileges, the culture of her children, and her literary
labors, in which she has ever found her true vocation — with
rides, drives, and rambles through the romantic country which
surrounded her, and occasional excursions to the sea-shore, the
mountains, and our larger northern cities, the years glided by in
strong contrast with the dark days that preceded them.
" Fortune favors the brave," and soon after Mrs. South-
worth's removal to this pleasant home, her services were secured
exclusively for the "New York Ledger," the bounteou? editor
224 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
of that journal, as a matter of course, making the engagement
the crowning one of her literary career.
It is pleasant to trace in Mrs. Southworth's later writings,
the genial effect of sunshine and sympathy. Her stories are
still impassioned, but there are no currents that scathe as we
follow them. This is especially true of the serial "Rose
Elifter," just now being published in the " Ledger," as well as
" Capitola," which appeared some months since in the same
journal. The latter fairly sparkles and dances with vivacity ;
and even the " villain of the plot," does his de'ooir with an unma-
licious, deprecating grace, that excites in us only a desire to Vv^in
him from his evil way, and make a taking little saint of him.
In 1859, finding her health failing at last, under the strain
of constant application, Mrs. Southworth took leave, for a time,
of "Prospect Cottage," and went, witli her two children,
" to recruit under the green shadows of old English homes."
That she still lingers is, we trust, a proof that English shadows
are falling balmily.
LADY ETHERIDGE BECOMES A GOVERlSnESS.
Laura Elmer arrived in London alone, at nightfall. Leaving the mail-
coach, she called a fl}^, had her luggage put on, and directed the driver to
drive to a house in one of the most fashionable localities in the West
End. An hour's ride brought her to within a few blocks of her destina-
tion. To get nearer seemed impossible, from the long line of carriages
that stood along the street in front of the house, and stopped the way.
Every circumstance seemed to indicate that a large evening party was being
entertained at the house in question.
Laura put down the window, and asked the driver:
" Can you get no further ?"
"No, madam; not as yet," answered the cabman.
" How long shall we have to stay here?"'
" Ilimpossile to say, mum. Here be a great crowd, as her la' ship his
'aving of a ball, or summut."
EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 225
Laura sunk back in lier seat, and waited perhaps half an hour before the
cab drew up to the door, which, standing open, revealed a lighted hall, with
a supercilious-looking porter, seated in an arm-chair, and several footmen in
attendance, to one of whom Laura handed her card.
Laura Elmer was dressed in deep mourning, and muffled in the cloak arid
hood in which she had travelled from Swinburne. But there was in her air
and manner a certain gracious dignity that seemed to mark her as a lady of
high rank. The servant that received her card bowed low, and showed her
up the broad staircase to the door of a cloak-room, where several splendidly-
dressed ladies were laying off their wrappings before passing into the
drawing-room.
Laura saw at once the servant's very natural error, and turning, said :
"I think you mistake me for one of the invited guests, this evening."
Even that explanation did not shake the servant's faith in the high posi-
tion of the noble-looking woman before him. He glanced at her deep
mourning, and thought he had found the reason why she was not a guest at
the gay party. He answered, respectfully :
" I beg your pardon, madam ; if you will be so good as to walk into the
library, I will take your card up to her ladyship."
And the man opened a door on the left, and showed the visitor into a
spacious and richly-furnished library. Laura seated herself at a table, and
mechanically turned over the leaves of a folio while waiting the return of
the servant.
Presently she heard voices without the door — one was that of the foot-
man who had carried up her card, and who seemed to be apologizing for the
mistake he had made. The other was the voice of an elderly female servant,
who was roundly lecturing the man in the following words :
" To carry up the governess's card to 'er ladyship in the drawing-room !
I'm ashamed of you, James ! but hi never could teach you the difference
between a lady and a woman. Now I not only know a lady from a woman,
but among ladies, hi can halways tell a mistress, han 'onorable mistress, a
lady, a baroness, a viscountess, countess, marchioness, and duchess, the
minute hi see one, and hi graduate my respects haccordingly. Hand simi-
larly among young ladies, I can tell at sight a miss, han 'onorable miss, hand
a lady ; hand likewise graduates my respects haccordingly. iNow, a governess,
James, is not by no means a lady ; but his only a person hentitled to no
manner of respects whatsomedever, except Christian charity, has one may
say. Now you shall see how I receives this governess."
15
226 WOMEN" OF THE SOUTH.
"Just so, Mrs. Jones ; you'll put her on her proper footing in no time."
"You shall see, James."
But Mrs. Jones did not know that there "were spiritual hierarchies as
domic ant as were earthly ones, and that in Laura Elmer's person lived the
honor-compelling spirit of a queen.
She opened the door and bustled in, swinging herself from side to side,
with all the insolence of a pampered menial, and was about to speak, when
Laura Elmer raised her stately head, and fixed her full, dark eyes upon the
woman's face ; whereupon the latter immediately, and quite involuntarily,
dropped a courtesy, and addressing Miss Elmer very respectfully, said :
■ " My lady has sent me to receive you, ma'am. "Would you prefer to see
your room before you take supper ?"
" I thank you ; you may show me to my apartment, and send me a cup
of tea; that is all I shall require to-night," said Laura.
The housekeeper touched a bell, which was answered by a housemaid, to
whom she said :
" Show Miss Elmer to the bed-chamber adjoining the school-room, and
take her up a cup of tea."
The girl brought a light, and requesting Miss Elmer to precede her,
showed the way from the library.
" There, James, you see with what self-respect and dignity M treat the
governess," said the housekeeper, just as soon as the restraining influence of
Laura's presence was withdrawn.
" Can't say as I did, Mrs. Jones," said the footman, very drily.
"You seen, at least, hi kept her at a distance," said the housekeeper.
" I see as you kept yourself at a respectful distance, just as I should, if
any haccident was to throw me in the way of her majesty the queen."
"You're a himperent fellow, and hi shall report you to Sir Vincent ! "
exclaimed the housekeeper, in a fury, as, swinging herself from side to side,
she brushed out of the room.
" Well ! governess or duchess, I could no more fail in respects to that
young lady, than I could to Lady Lester herself. Leastways, when I'm in
her presence ; nor no more could you, Mrs. Jones, for all your swinging
about of your hoops behind her back. Why, she's grander-looking in her
plain black dress, than all the peeresses in their velvets and diamonds, as I
saw hannounced in the drawing-room this hevening," was the acute criticism
of the footman, James, as he returned to his post of service in the hall
below.
EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 227
Meanwhile, Laura Elmer was conducted by the housemaid to her
apartment, next the school-room, in the third story.
" My lady appointed this floor as the apartments of the young ladies and
their governess, upon account of its quiet and fresh air, and I am directed to
wait on you and them, ma'am. Is there anything I can bring you with your
tea?" asked the maid, as she ushered Miss Elmer into the comfortably fur-
nished and well-lighted bed-room, Avhere her luggage had already been
brought.
" Nothing else, thank you. My good girl, what is your name?"
" Lizzy, ma'am."
"Nothing, then, Lizzy," said Miss Elmer, laying oif her wrappings and
bonnet, and throwing herself into an arm-chair before the bright fire.
And then the excitement that had sustained her through the long
journey, subsided, now that it was over. There came a strong reaction, and
she burst into a passion of tears ; but not one thought was given to the loss
of wealth or title ; a commonplace woman might indeed have wept bitterly
for the loss of these, but Laura Elmer could only weep for the greater
bereavement of her heart.
" If he had been taken away from me by death, while I yet believed him
to be true and noble, then, indeed, I could have borne it ! I should have
put on mourning and lived through all my pilgrimage on earth a widowed
maiden for his sake, waiting for that death which should re-unite us in
eternal love. But now ! but now ! he is lost to me forever, in time and in
eternity i"
She dropped her face once more upon her hands, and sobbed as though
the very fountains of her life were breaking up.
Thus bitterly she wept in her hour of weakness for the false-hearted
traitor, caring nothing, knowing nothing of the true and noble heart who
had secretly consecrated himself to her service, and who would gladly have
shed his blood, drop by drop, to have saved her from shedding tears.
Not long did her weakness last. She dashed the sparkling drops from
her eye, murmuring :
" I must not give way to sorrow for the past. I must strug-gle through
my life. I must not murmur at misfortune, but rather thank heaven for the
blessings that are left. I have lost wealth, position, and my false love ; but
I have left youth, health, intellect, and much acquired knowledge, with
many accomplishments. These will always enable me to lead a useful life.
How much more favored am I stiU than half my fellow-creatures ! I wiU
228 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
grieve no more, but rather slio-w my gratitude to hea-ssen hj a cheerful
industry in the station in life, which Providence has assigned me."
She arose, bathed her eyes, and smoothed her hair, and resumed her seat
just as Lizzie entered with the tea-tray.
And after this slight refreshment, Laura Elmer dismissed her attendant
and retired to bed. She could not sleep. The novelty of her position was
enough to have disturbed her repose ; but this was not all. Accustomed all
her life to the luxurious stillness of Swinburne Castle, where her own deli-
cious sleeping-room was blind to light and deaf to sound, she found the noise
of the London streets a perfect antidote to sleep. All night long there was
the sound of carriages coming and going, as late guests arrived and early
ones departed. At length when day broke, and all the rest of the world
woke to life, London became quiet.
Laura Elmer dropped asleep, and was visited by a singular dream or
vision. First there was. infused into her soul a delicious warmth and light,
strengthening as soothing. She was again at Swinburne Castle. The beau-
tiful and beloved home of her childhood and youth was bathed in the sun-
shine of a glorious summer's day. Many loving friends were around her, arid
by her side was one whose kingly countenance seemed strange, yet strangely
familiar, and whom, in her dream, she loved with a passion as profound as it
was elevated, as ardent as it was pure.
In his hand he held the coronet of her ancient house. This glittering
diadem he placed upon her brow, saying :
"Hail, my beloved! once more Laura, Baronness of Etheridge of
Swinburne!"
With the fullness of joy that this diadem inspired, she awoke, and the
beautiful vision fled. The vision fled, but not its beneficent effect. Charmed,
strengthened, and elevated, she knew not wherefore, except through the
influence of her dream, she arose and made her simple morning toilet — a
plain black bombazine dress, and black crape collar. Her rich- and abundant
black hair, worn in plain bands, was her only head-dress. By the time she
had completed her toilet, which, simple as it was, occupied her longer than
usual, for she was quite unaccustomed to waiting upon herself, there came a
gentle rap at the chamber door, and to her " Come in," entered the little
maid.
" Oh! I beg your pardon, ma'am, I thought you would want me to assist
you," said Lizzy ; adding, " breakfast is quite ready."
"Show me the way, then, child," said Miss Elmer.
EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 229
The maid conducted our heroine to a small sitting-room adjoining tlxe
school-room, where a table was laid for the morning meal.
« "The young ladies and their governess take their meals here, ma'am, if
you please."
"And where are the young ladies?"
" If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Rachel will bring them directly."
And even as the maid spoke, a respectable, middle-aged matron entered,
leading two dark-eyed little girls, of about ten and twelve years, by the hand,
whom she presented to the governess as Miss Lester and Miss Lucy Lester,
adding:
" Now, my dears, this lady is your teacher. You will be very good, and
not plague her as much as you did Miss Primrose."
"But I hated Miss Primrose, nurse, and I shall hate this one, too; I know
I shall," said the elder child.
" For shame, Miss Lester ! Go and speak to your governess, as a young
lady should," said the nurse.
The children drew back, frowning and sulky ; but Laura advanced toward
them with outstretched hands, saying :
" I am very glad to see you, my dears, and I am sure you will like to
stay with me."
Her voice was so sweet, and her look so gracious and benignant, that the
children readily met her offered hands, and smiles broke through their sulky
faces, like sunshine through the clouds.
The elder one looked up shily into her face, and said :
" I am sorry that I said anything to offend you, ma'am ; but Miss Prim-
rose was such a plague ! But I will please you !"
" I hope so ; and now shall we go to breakfast?" said Laura, leading the
little girl to the table.
The nurse had left the school-room, and now returned leading in a little
boy about eleven years old, saying :
" And here is Master Percy, if you please, ma'am. He is to be under
your charge until his tutor arrives."
Once more Laura arose to meet the lad ; a fine, handsome, dark-eyed,
frank-looking boy, who returned her cordial greeting with a look of real
admiration, saying :
" I am a great boy to be in a lady's schopl-room, Miss Elmer : but you
will find me not at all unmanageable."
" Of that I am quite sure," replied the governess.
230 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
The hoj Joined the circle at the breakfast-table, where the children broke
into a conversation, more remarkable for vivacity than for propriety.
Laura looked from one to another of her pupils, thinking within her- ■
self:
" Providence never intended me for a governess, for I feel not the slight-
est disposition toward curbing these children's fine spirits or checking their
free conversation."
"When breakfast was over. Miss Elmer took her pupils into the school-
room, and entered into a preliminary examination of their progress in their
various studies. This occupied her the whole forenoon, and it was near two
o'clock when a servant knocked at the door, and being admitted, brought
the compliments of Lady Lester, with a request that Miss Elmer would come
immediately to her ladyship's dressing-room.
With a mournful smile given to the memory of the past, when as Baroness
Etheridge, she herself received dependents in her own dressing-room, Laura
Elmer arose, and attended by the footman, who showed her the way,
descended to the second floor, upon which was situated the private apart-
ments of Lady Lester. Laura was shown into a spacious dressing-room,
with hangings of blue satin, and otherwise splendidly furnished, the walls
being adorned with the choicest paintings, and the niches filled with the
rarest statues, all original or copies of old masters. Many bouquets of
the rarest exotics diffused a rich fragrance through the air. In the midst
of this room stood a large Psyche mirror, and before it, in the softest of
easy-chairs, reclined a fair, statuesque woman, arrayed in a graceful white
dressing-gown of Indian muslin. At her side stood a small rosewood
table, with a breakfast-service of gold plate, upon which stood the
remains of a dainty breakfast. At the back of her ladyship's chair stood
her French maid, engaged in combing out the long, luxuriant, light hair of
her mistress.
The first thought of Laura Elmer on entering the room, was :
" Surely this young, fair, inane-looking woman, cannot be the mother of
those very vivacious and beautiful little brunettes in the school-room. She
must be their step-mother, and the baronet's second wife."
" Jeanette, tell the young person to come around here, where I can see
her without having to turn my head," said her ladyship, addressing her
fem/me de charnbre.
Laura smilingly advanced, and stood as she was desired, immediately
before Lady Lester. • '
EMMA D. E. N. SOIJTHWORTH. 231
"Ton are the new governess that Sir Vincent engaged!" she inquired,
without taking the trouble to lift her languid, snowy eyelids.
" Yes, madam," replied Laura.
" Your name is Miss Elmer !"
" It is, madam."
" "Well, Miss Elmer, Sir Vincent desired me to see you this morning,
though I am quite at a loss to know why," drawled her ladyship languidly.
" Perhaps, madam, the baronet wished me to receive your instructions as
to the best method of managing my pupils," suggested Laura.
" Oh, nurse Jones could tell you how to manage much better than I
could. She understands their dispositions."
"It is probable, then, that Sir Vincent wished me to receive your lady-
ship's directions concerning the course of studies to be pursued by the young
ladies ?"
" Oh, then, he should have sent for you to the library, talked with you
himself, for he is interested in all those matters, which only bore me."
All this time Laura Elmer had stood with her stately form drawn up, and
her large, dark, starry eyes looking steadily down upon the fair inanity
tefore her.
" I am sure I cannot conceive why Sir Vincent should wish me to see
you," said her ladyship, in a tone of vexation, and then, for the first
time, raising her languid eyes to the face of the governess, she asked :
" Can you suggest anything else?"
Then seeing, for the first time, that queenly form, and meeting, for the
first time, that queenly spirit shining through the great, calm, luminous eyes,
she instinctively bowed before it, and involuntary said :
" I beg your pardon, Miss Elmer, for having kept you standing so long.
Pray take a seat."
" I thank you, madam, but if your ladyship has really no commands for
me, I will ask your permission to return to my charge."
" I really do not know that I have anything to suggest to you. Miss
Elmer. Yet now I think of it, I wish you to teU me, do they make yon
comfortable ? I leave all these things to Jones."
" Quite comfortable, I thank you, madam."
" If you find there is anything that you require for your comfort or your
happiness, let Jones know ; and if she neglects your orders, inform Sir Vin-
cent. He has more energy than I have, and relieves me of all that sort of
trouble."
232 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" I thank your ladyship," Laura said. " There is nothing I require for
my comfort ; and, for my happiness, I fear it would be unjust to compel
poor Jones to provide for that," she added, mentally.
Then bidding her ladyship good morning, she retired from her presence.
In the outer hall, she found herself waylaid by another footman, with
Sir Vincent's respects to her, and a request that she would favor him with a
few moments' conversation in the library.
Again Laura smiled to herself, thinking :
" If the baronet is no more alive to his parental duties than her ladyship,
this interview will be a mere form."
She was shown into the richly-furnished library, fiUed with the treasures
of literature, science and art of two centuries of accumulation, and lighted
by one tall, Gothic window of stained glass, that diffused " a dim, religious
light " throughout the vast room. In a rich, antique chair, beside a writing-
table, in the centre of the room, sat a tall, stout, very handsome man, aged
about forty-five. Regular and well-chiselled features, dark grey eyes, heavy
black eyebrows, a large, well-formed nose, and a full, handsome mouth,
were all framed in by a luxuriant growth of shining black hair and whiskers.
On seeing Miss Elmer, he arose with a stately courtesy, and placed a
chair for her, saying, as he handed her to her seat :
" I requested the favor of your company here, Miss Elmer, that I might
consult with you upon the subject of your new pupils."
Laura bowed and awaited his further speech.
" You have, I presume, just left Lady Lester ?"
" Yes, Sir Vincent."
" The delicate constitution, and the numerous social responsibilities of
her ladyship, prevent her from giving that attention to her children that she
would otherwise."
The baronet paused. He seemed anxious to defend his wife's indifference
to her children, yet unable to do so with truth. At length he said :
" You have seen your future pupils ?"
" I have seen them."
" I hope, that notwithstanding their very neglected condition, you find
them not unpromising subjects?"
" Decidedly not. They seem to me to be unusually gifted, though some-
what undisciplined," said Laura, with a smile, adding, " however, I sliould
have informed you, sir, that I have little experience in childi'en, never hav-
ing filled the situation of governess before."
EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 233
The baronet looked up in surprise, then drawing toward him an open
letter that lay on the table, and referring to it, he said :
" Ah ! yes. Dr. Seymour has written ' that unforeseen reverses have
placed Miss Elmer under the necessity of seeking a situation in life for which
she was not brought up, yet, for which her moral and intellectual qualifica-
tions eminently fit her.' I must condole with your misfortunes, and at the
same time I congratulate myself and my children, Miss Elmer."
Laura bowed, and remained silent.
The baronet then went over the list of studies that he wished his children
to pursue, and in conclusion, said :
" I hope you will allow me to look into your school-room sometimes,
Miss Elmer, to aid you by such counsels as my somewhat longer and more
intimate acquaintance . with your pupils might suggest," said the baronet,
smilling.
" My inexperience will thank you, sir."
And seeing that the interview was closed, she was about to rise, when
the door swung slowly open, and a figure glided in that immediately arrested
her attention.
It was that of a young woman of about twenty years of age, who would
have been beautiful but for the deathly pallor of her thin face, that looked
still more ghastly white in contrast with the raven blackness of her hair,
eyebrows, and large, wild eyes, and her dress of deep mourning.
The baronet started, changed countenance, and arose in haste and agita-
tion, and advanced to meet her.
But she glided toward him, extending her thin, white arms, clasping her
transparent hands, and fixing her wild, black eyes in an agony of supplica-
tion upon his face.
" Helen, why are you here ? "What is this?" he inquired, in a deep and
smothered voice, as he took her hand, and led her unresisting from the
room.
Feeling it to be impossible to follow them, Laura Elmer retained her seat
for a few moments, at the end of which time the baronet reentered the
library in a state of agitation almost frightful to behold. The veins of his
forehead were swollen out like blue cords, his nostrils were dilated and
quivering, his lips grimly clenched, his cheeks highly flushed, his dark eyes
contracted and glittering, his large frame shaking. He evidently struggled
to suppress the exhibition of his emotions as he resumed his seat, and, trem-
bling, dropped his face upon his hands.
234 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Laura Elmer felt painfully tlie awkwardness of her position. It was
impossible to speak to him, and nearly equally impossible to Avithdraw with-
out doing so, while it seemed indelicate to remain and witness the strong
emotions that he so evidently tried to conceal.
At length, seeing him deeply absorbed in his own feelings, she softly
arose, with the intention of gliding from the room, when the baronet, some-
how perceiving her purpose, abruptly started forward, saying, " I beg your
pardon. Miss Elmer," opened the door, and courteously held it open until she
passed out.
Laura Elmer retraced her steps to the school-room.
As she entered she was warmly greeted by the smiles of her young
charges, who assured her that they had conscientiously occupied the time of
her absence in devotion to their studies.
" Fot disinterested attention, I assure you. Miss Elmer, as we remember
the old condition of, ' no lessons in the school-room, no drive out in the
park,' " said Miss Lester.
Laura looked up inquiringly, and learned from the explanation that
ensued, that the governess was always expected to take her pupils for a daily
afternoon drive in the park, and that they were now quite ready to recite
their lessons and prepare for their airing.
Laura Elmer felt no sort of objection to this arrangement, and as soon,
therefore, as the lessons were faithfully dispatched, the young ladies' carriage
was ordered, and they drove out.
The park was, as usual at this hour of the day, filled with a brilliant
crowd in open carriages, of every description, intermingled with gay and
noble equestrian figures. Laura Elmer enjoyed her drive through the park
even more than her pupUs did, since to her the scene was as new as it was
interesting.
Presently —
" There is Ruthven," exclaimed Miss Lester, as a young gentleman,
mounted on a spirited horse, rode up to the side of the carriage, and, lifting
his hat, said :
" Well, young ladies, I hope you are enjoying your drive."
"Excellent well. Miss Elmer, this is our elder brother, Ruthven," said
Miss Lester.
The young gentleman, smiling at this very informal presentation, bowed,
and hoped Miss Elmer was well, and not too much incommoded by his very
unmanageable sisters.
EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 235
Miss Elmer reassured Mr. Lester upon that point, and, in doing so, for
tlie first time looked up at him.
He was a fine-looking young man, very much like his father, having the
same tall and weU-proportioned frame, though much less stout than that of
the baronet ; and the same dark eyes, and heavy eyebrows, and regular fea-
tures, surrounded by jet-black hair and whiskers, though his face was less
full, and his countenance less mature, than that of the elder man. He rode
beside the carriage, conversing gaily with his sisters, for some time, and then
suddenly inquired :
" Is her ladyship out to-day ?"
"I am sure I don't know. I have not seen mamma for a week," replied
Miss Lester.
" And poor Helen ?" inquired the young man, lowering his voice.
"Hush! for mercy's sake ! you quite frighten me," replied Ms sister, ia
the same low tone, and with changing cheek, and trembling voice.
The young man sighed deeply, and murmuring, inaudibly,
" Her name was banished from each ear,
Like words of wantonness and fear,"
turned and rode sadly away.
A strange, terrified silence fell upon the little party, which lasted until
they returned home. After an early tea and supper, Laura Elmer retired to
bed. And thus ended the first day of her new phase of life.
THE HAUISTTED HOMESTEAD.
I could not sleep ! I seldom can the first night in a strange house, and
this was — such a house ! I felt quite alone — as much alone as if the heavy
sleepers in the next bed were a thousand miles away,- iov farther still in
spirit were they. I thought of the isolated situation of the house we were
in ; of the crimes, real or reputed, that had stained its hearth-stone ; of the
superstitious terror attaching to the haunted place ; of the hard facts that
three several families, not reputed less wise or less brave than their neigh-
bors, had been fh-iven from the spot by supernatural disturbance as yet unex-
plained ; of the coincidence that this dreary night was the ghostly Hallow
Eve ; then of the superstition that spirits, when they wish to appear to only
236 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
one in a room, have the power of casting all others into a profound sleep,
from which the haunted one cannot awake them, and of isolating their victim
from all the natural world — even from the very hed-fellow by their side.
The room was very dark and stUl — solid blackness and dead silence. It
oppressed me like a nightmare. At last, when mj senses grew accustomed
to the scenes by straining my eyes, I could dimly perceive beyond the foot of
my bed, the segment of a circle formed by the fan-light window, that now
only seemed a thinner darkness ; and by straining my ears, I could faintly
hear the stealthy fall of the drizzling rain. It was almost worse than the
first total silence and darkness ; for it kept my nerves on a strange qui mve
of attention. Presently this was over too. The muffled sound* of the drizzling
rain ceased. Yet darker clouds must have lowered over the earth, for the
faint outline of the fan-light window was no longer visible. All was once
more black darkness and intense silence, and again I felt oppressed almost to
suffocation — welcome now would have been the faint fall of the fine rain, or
the dim outline of the window. I strained my senses in vain, no sight or
sound responded. I felt the silence and the darkness settling like the clods
of the ground upon my breast.
Hoo-QO-o-o — ! went something.
Hark ! what was that ? I thought, starting.
Eoo-oo-o-o — /
Oh ! the wailing voice of some low, wandering wind, I concluded.
Whir- irr-rr-r-r-^!
Yes ! the wind is rising, but how like a lost spirit it waUs.
Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r — .'
My Lord ! it's not the wind ! What is it ? Great Heavens !
TJrr-rr-rr-rr-r-r-r — .'
I started up in a sitting posture, and bathed in a cold perspiration,
remained listening, my hair bristling with terror.
JJrr-rr-rr-rr-r-r-r — " Ha — ha — ha .'"
I could bear no more ! — springing out, I called —
"Grandmother! Grandmother!"
"What's the matter? Why, what ails the child?" exclaimed Mrs.
Hawkins.
"Oh! listen! listen!"
"Listen to what? — you are dreaming!"
"Dreaming, am I? Oh! wait! Listen"
Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r — " Ha ! — ha ! — ha V
EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 237
It was, as plainly as I ever heard, the sound of the rolling of a ball, fol-
lowed by a peal of demoniac laughter.
I turned on Mrs. Hawkins an appalled look.
She was surprised but self-possessed, and evidently bent on calmly listen-
ing and investigating. She sat straight up in bed with a strong, concentrated
attention to the sounds. They came again —
TTrr-rr-rr-r-r-r-e — rattle-te-'bang ! — "J. ten strilce at last! — (9's a dead
shotr
" A dead shot P'
"J. dead sTiotP^ was echoed all around.
Grandmother calmly threw the quilts off her, stepped out of bed, and
began to dress herself.
" Sti-ike a light, Madeline," she said.
"What are you going to do, grandmother?"
" Dress myself and examine the premises."
ZPrr-rr-rr-r-r-r — " Ha ! Jia ! ha .'" sounded once more the demoniac noise
and laughter.
The match-box nearly dropped from my shaking hands, but I struck the
light.
The sudden flash awoke Alice just as another sonorous roll of the ball,
and fall of the pins, and peal of demon laughter, sounded hollowly around
us.
" Heaven and earth ! what is that ?" she exclaimed, starting up.
" What do you think it is, Alice?" said I.
" My Lord ! my Lord ! — it is the phantoms of the murderer and the mur-
dered playing over again their last game!" cried the girl, in an agony of
terror.
Just at this moment a distinct knocking was heard at the little door at
the foot of the staircase.
Alice screamed.
I held my breath.
The knocking was repeated.
"Who is there?" said Mrs. Hawkins, going to the head of the stairs.
Fo answer ; but the knocking was repeated ; and then a frightened, plain-
tive voice, crying :
" Ole mistess — ole mistess — oh, do, for the Lord sake, let me in, chile !
the hair's almos' turn grey on my head."
"Is that you, Gassy?"
238 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
"Yes, honey — yes, what the ghoses has left o' me," replied the poor
creature, in a dying voice.
Grandmother went down the stairs and opened the door at the foot, and
Cassy came tumbling up into the room after her. She was absolutely ashen
grey with terror, and her limbs shook so that she could scarcely stand.
" Oh ! did you hear — did you hear aU the ghoses and devils playing nine-
pins together in our very house ?" she gasped, dropping into a chair.
As if in answer to her question, once more the phantom baU rolled in
detonating thunder, the pins fell with a loud, rattling sound, followed by a
hollow shout of triumph !
Cassy fell on her knees, and crossed herself devoutly.
Alice clung in terror to her grandmother.
I felt that the time to play the heroine was come, and strove to exhibit
self-possession and courage.
" Take up the candle, Cassy, and lead the way downstairs. "We must go
and search the house," said Mrs. Hawkins.
"Oh, for the Lord's sake don't! don't, ole mistess, honey! Don't be
a temptin' o' Providence ! Leave the ghosts alone and stay here, and fasten
the door."
" I shall search the house and grounds," said Mrs. Hawkins, in a peremp-
tory voice. " Therefore, take up the light and go before me."
"Oh! for de Lord's love, ole mistess! ef we mus' go, you go first, you
go first ; I dar'n't ; I's such a sinner, /is !" cried Cassy, wringing her hands
in an agony of terror.
ZPrr-Trr-rr-r-r-r-rattle-te-T)ci,ng-ang !
" A ten strihe ! Ho ! ho ! 7io ! ho ! ho ! ho /" again sounded the revels.
" Hooley St. Bridget, pray for us ! Hail Mary, full of grace ! Don't go,
ole mistess, honey! Oh, stay where you is in safety !". pleaded the old
woman, clasping her hands.
" Nonsense ! Hold your tongue, Cassy. If ever there was a woman
plagued with a set of cowardly simpletons, it is myself. Let go my skirts
this moment, Alice ! Be silent, every one of you, and follow me as softly as
possible," said my grandmother, in a low, stern voice, as she took up the
candle, and led the way downstairs. We followed at this order — Cassy
holding on to her mistress' skirts, Alice holding to Cassy's, and I bringing
up the rear, with carnal weapons in one hand and spiritual ones in the other
— that is to say, with a big ruler and a prayer-book.
A chill, damp air met us at the foot of the stairs — nothing else.
■■ EMMA D. E. N..SOUTHWORTH. 239
The front hall was empty and bleak. "We tried the doors, and found them
as secure as we had left them, with the exception of the parlor' door, by
which Cassy had entered, and which was on the latch. Mrs. Hawkins pulled
it to and locked it, saying, in a low voice, that she wished, while examining
each room, to keep all the rest locked, that there might be no escape for any
one concealed in the house.
First we went into the right-hand bed-room, opening from the hall. It
was secure, vacant and bleak. We locked the door and drew out the key.
Next we looked into the left-hand bed-room : it was in precisely the same
condition. We made it fast in the same manner.
Then we opened and entered the parlor. This was the bleakest room of
any : large, square, lofty, totally bare, cold and damp.
"Nothing here," said Mrs. Hawkins, looking around.
Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r-rattle-te-hang-ang-ang ! the phantom ball rolled, and
scattered the nine-pins.
"5a .'' Tia ! ha ! ha ! haV shouted the hollow, ghostly voices.
They seemed to be in the veiy room with us, reverberating in the very
air we breathed, echoing from the four walls around, and from the ceiling
above us !
" Jesu Mary!" cried Cassy, dropping on her knees.
" Oh! oh! oh!" gasped Alice, clinging to me.
"This is very unaccountable," said our grandmother, looking all around
the room, where nothing but bare walls and bare boards met the view.
We looked at each other in silence for a few moments, and then Mrs.
Hawkins said:
" Come ! let us look into the dining-room, and then call up Hector to
assist us in searching the grounds."
We passed on into the next room, and locked the door behind us, as we
had locked every' one in our tour through the house. That room was closely
packed with furniture, over which we had to clamber our passage.
While we were doing so, once again sounded the detonating roll of the
ball, the rattling scattering of the pins, and the hollow peals of laughter, all
echoing around and around us, as it were, in the same rooms.
Alice again seized her grandmother.
Cassy -ell over a stack of wash-tubs, and called on all the saints to help
her.
Mrs. Hawkins ordc::i Alice to let her go, and Cassy to get up, and me
to move on.
240 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
She was obeyed. A great general was our grandmother, and we all
knew it !
We left the dining-room, locking the last door behind ns. We dodged
ihe dark, blind alley, sheltered the candle from the drizzling mist, and went
around into the kitchen and called Hector from above.
The old man answered, and soon came toddling down the narrow stairs.
" Hector, have you heard those noises?" inquired Mrs. Hawkins.
" The Lord between us and evil! I've heern, mistess! I've heem!"
" What do you suppose it is?"
A dubious, solemn shake of the head was the old man's only reply.
"Can't you speak, Hector? How do you account for those noises?
Come, no mysteries ; answer if you can ; what are they ?"
" Dead people .'" groaned the old man, with a shudder.
" Pooh!" exclaimed Mrs. Hawkins.
But I could see that even sJie was paler than usual.
" Come, Hector! There is no one in the house, that is certain. And no
one can get into it while we are gone, because it is locked up. ISTow, fasten
up the kitchen, and let us go and search the grounds, and unkennel any
interlopers that may be lurking there."
We came out and secured the kitchen door, and began our tour of the
garden.
As we left the door, our watch-dog ran out to join us.
This circumstance, while it greatly assisted us in our search, very much
increased the perplexity of our minds. Had the dog heard the noises that
had disturbed us, and if so, why had he not given the alarm ? — or, on the
other hand, were dogs insensible to supernatural sights and sounds ? We
could not tell, but we were glad to have Fidelle snuffing and trotting along
with us, confident that if there were a human being lurking anywhere in the
garden, he would smell him out. So we went up one grass-grown walk and
down another, between rows of gooseberry bushes, currant bushes, and rasp-
berry bushes, all damp and drippling with mist, and through alleys of dwarf
plum-trees, and all along the hedges of evergreen inside the brick wall, and
past the iron gate, which was still chained, as it had been left, and then
around in the stable, coach-house, hen-house, and smoke-house, each of which
we found securely locked, and, when opened, damp, musty and vacant ; and-
so we looked over every foot of the ground, and into every out-building,
finding all safe and leaving all safe ; and at last, without having discovered
anything, we arrived again at the dining-room door.
SMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 241
"We all entered, locked the door after us, clambered over the piles of fiir-
aiture, and passed on into the parlor.
The parlor, as I have said, was as yet unfurnished, damp and cold. Yet
there we paused for a little while to take breath.
"There is nothing concealed in the garden, and nothing in the house ;
that is demonstrated. These strange manifestations must admit of a natural
explanation ; but I confess myself at a loss to explain them," said Mrs. Haw-
kins.
" Oh, ole mistess, Tess it's de ghoses, honey ! 'fess it's de ghoses ! Me-
morize how nobody was ever able to lib in dis cussed house !" pleaded
Cassy.
" Oh, yes, grandmother, do let's sit up here all night to-night, and move
out early to-morrow morning," entreated Ally.
"What do you say, Madeline?" inquired my grandmother.
"I say, brave it out !"
" So do I, my girl !" replied Mrs. Hawkins.
"Oh, for de love o' de Lord, don't^ ole mistess! don't. Miss Maddy!
don't ! It's a temptin' o' Providence ! leave de 'fernal ole place to de ghoses,
as, has de bes' right to it!" prayed Gassy.
""We'll see about that!" said our grandmother. "But come! all seems
quiet now ; we will go to bed, and investigate further to-morrow."
" Yes, ole mistess, honey, I knows all is quiet jest noio^ but "
Ha! Tia! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!— Ho! ho! ho! ho ! ho! ho! ho!
burst a peal of demoniac laughter, resounding through and through the
room, and close into our ears.
"The Lord between us and Satan!" cried Cassy, dropping the candle,
which immediately went out and left us in darkness.
While, peal on peal, sounded the demoniac laughter around us.
Cassy fell on her knees, and began praying —
"St. Mary pray for us! St. Martha pray for us! all ye hooly vargins
.and widders i)ray for us lone women! St. Peter pray for us! St. Powl
pray for us! All hooly 'postles and 'vangellers pray for us poor sinners! —
Saint — Saint — Saint — Oh! for de Lor's sake, Miss Ally, honey, tell me de
•name o' that hooly Saint as met a ghose riding on Balaam's ass and knows
how it feels!"
" It was Saul, or Samuel, or the Witch of Endor, I forget which," said
Alice, whose knowledge of the Old Testament, never very precise, was
frightened out of her.
16
242 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" St. Saul, St. Samuel, St. "Witcliywiiider pray for us, as met a ghost your-
self and knows how it feels."
And still while Cassy prayed her frantic prayers, and poor old Hector
told his beads, and Alice trembled and clung to me, the demon laughter
resounded around and around us.- We were in such total darkness that I
had not seen Mrs. Hawkins withdraw herself from the group, nor suspected
her absence until we heard her firm, cheery voice outside near the dining-
room door, saying,
" What can any one think of this ? Come here, Hector ! Come here,
children !"
We all went, expecting some denoument.
Mrs. Hawkins telegraphed to us to be perfectly silent, and to step lightly.
She turned the angle of the house, and walked up the blind alley between
the back of the house and the back of the kitchen ; when she had got about
mid-way of the walk, she stopped, and silently pointed to the rank weeds
and bushes that grew closely under the wall of the house.
" There! what do you think of that?" she said in a low voice.
We looked, and at first could see nothing ; but, on a closer inspection,
we perceived a very faint glimmer, a mere thread of red light, low down
among the bushes.
We looked up at Mrs. Hawkins for explanation.
" After the candle fell and went out," she said, " I slipped out, with the
intention of exploring again, and this time alone, and in darkness. I came
up this blind alley, and looking sharply, descried that glimmer of light.
And now I am convinced that the revellers, human or ghostly, are below
there, in that old disused cellar that we were made to believe was nearly full
of water, and required to be drained. Don't be agitated, children ! take it
coolly," concluded Mrs. Hawkins, stooping down to put aside the weeds and
hushes.
Just at this moment, another detonating roll of the ball, and scattering
fall of the pins, and peal of hollow laughter, resounded from below.
Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r rattle hang-ang-ang ! '■'■Ha! ha! Jia ! ha! ha! Mo!
Tio ! ho ! ho ! A dead shot!''''
" Too late, young gentlemen ! Your fun is all over ! Your game is up !
You are discovered! Come forth!" said Mrs. Hawkins, who, down upon
her knees, jjulled away the bushes, turned up the old broken and moldy
cellar door, and discovered the scene below.
A rudely fitted up bowling alley, occupying the further end of the room,
EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. 24S
and some eight or ten youths, no longer engaged in rolling balls, b.ut on the
contrary, standing in various attitudes of detected culpability.
" Come ! come forth !" commanded Mrs. Hawkins.
And they came, climbing up the rotten and moldering steps, and the
very first who put his impudent head up through the door into the open air
was Will Rackaway !
" Oh, "Will !" exclaimed Alice, reproachfully.
" You! Will!" questioned Mrs. Hawkins, in scandalized astonishment,
** No ! the ghost of O'Donnegan," replied the youth in a sepulchral
voice.
" Reprobate !" exclaimed our grandmother.
" Now, indeed, indeed, I was only taking the liberty of entertaining my
friends in my kind Aunt Hawkins' cellar. Quite right, you know ! Only
don't tell father, and I'll never do so no more !" pleaded Will, with mock
humility.
" Dismiss your comrades, sir ! and come into the house ! I shall
send for your father to-morrow morning," said Mrs Hawkins in a stern
voice.
There was no need to dismiss the intruders; they were climbing up
the dilapidated steps as fast as they could come, and slinking away with
averted heads, trying to conceal their faces, which Mrs. Hawkins did not
insist upon discovering. When they were all gone, Will followed us into the
house.
" Now then, sir, explain your conduct," ordered Mrs. Hawkins.
And Will, with an air of mock humility and deprecation, obeyed.
The account he gave was briefly this — himself and several other youtha,
eons of very strict parents, who proscribed nine-pins with other games, had,
out of some old timber and furniture, left of O'Donnegan's old nine-pin
alley, that had been taken down and carried away, fitted up the old disused
cellar for their games. They had played there recently, every night, with ao
other intention than that of amusing themselves, and of keeping their game
concealed — with certainly no thought of enacting a ghostly drama ; until to
their astonishment, they gradually learned that these revels were mistaken
for ghostly orgies, and had given the house its unenviable reputation of being
haunted — a joke much too good for human nature, and especially for toys'
human nature not to carry out. Everything favored their concealment.
The cellar was reputed to be half full of water, and was long disused, and
every cellar- window, except the narrow hidden one that they had turned
244 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
into a door, and nailed np. Besides, tlie front division of the cellar -was
really two feet deep in water, and when there was any risk of discovery, they
had a means of letting it in to overflow the back division, so that their
fixtures were all covered. Thus for months they had played the double
game of nine-pins and of a ghostly drama !
. &. KLch ardsonl-Tibhslier
ROSA YERTNER JOHNSON".
Mbs. Johnson, whose original name was Griffith, is a native
of Natchez, Mississippi. When she was nine months old, her
mother died, leaving her to the charge of her maternal aunt,
whose child she became hy adoption, and whose name she re-
ceived with a mother's love and nurture.
" I have never," says Mrs. Johnson, referring to Mrs. Yert-
ner, " known the misery of being motherless, as she has fulfilled
most tenderly and unceasingly a fond mother's duty toward me."
Mr. Griffith, the father of our poet, was a gentleman of cul-
tivated literary taste and a practised and graceful writer in both
prose and verse. Many of his Indian stories — a favorite kind
of creation with him — were copied into the English journals of
the day with admiring recognition. He died in 1853, just as
the rare gifts of his daughter were opening to fame.
Eosa Yertner's early childhood was passed at " Burlington,"
a beautiful country seat, near Port Gibson, Mississippi, and the
home of her adopted parents. Her fondness for this place
amounted almost to a passion. " Here," she says, " I learned
to think and feel." And here, also, she began to give poetical
expression to thought and feeling. She prattled in rhyme long
before she could write, and many of her effusions, recorded from
her lips, are now in the possession of her mother. Amid the
outside natural charms of " Burlington," and the atmosphere of
refined luxury and a poet-father's influence within, the young
Kosa was cradled in the very haunts of the Muses ; the spirit
of poetry was in-born and bred.
246
246 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
When she was ten years of age, lier parents, witli an eye to
her best interest, sold tliis beautiful home and removed to Ken-'
tucky, for the purpose of superintending her education. The
pang which this removal cost the child Kosa, and the sacredness
with which the woman Rosa still holds the memory of that for-
saken ground, is " bodied forth " in one of the most dewy and
fragrant of her poems — " My Childhood's Home."
Miss Yertner was educated at the celebrated Seminary of
Bishop Smith, then at Lexington. At the age of seventeen, she
married Claude M. Johnson, a gentleman of manly character and
elegant fortune. Since her marriage, she has, until recently,
resided alternately in Lexington, Kentucky — the present abode
of her adopted parents — and at her husband's plantation in
Louisiana, spending the winter at the latter, and the summer in
the former place. Of late, however, she has made Lexington
her permanent home.
Mrs. Johnson is the mother of six children, two of whom
have passed from earth, though not from communion with her
loving spirit, as the poem entitled " Angel "Watchers " most
tenderly and tearfully attests. It is a smile and tear crystal-
lized— the purest gem in her literary casket.
In 1850, Mrs. Johnson became a cohtributor to the " Louis-
ville (Ky.) Journal," under the name of " Rosa." Through this
medium the greater number of her poems first appeared ;
although, from time to time, she has contributed also to the
"Home Journal," and the principal magazines and journals of
the country.
In 1857, her poems were published in a handsome volume,
by Messrs. Ticknor & Fields, of Boston, and elicited from the
press the warmest tributes of praise. In a most generous notice
of this collection, the editor of the " Louisville Journal " says :
" In the blooming field of modern poetry, we really know
not where to look for productions at once so full of merit and
ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 247
SO free from defect ; so luxuriant and yet so pure. The genius
of the writer is equally stainless and exact. As regards not
only the moral, but the literary quality of her productions, she
has written nothing ' which, dying, she could wish to blot.' "
Subordinate to this broader characteristic, but more striking
to the superficial eye, are the niarvellous wealth and delicacy of
her fancy. The fertility of her conception seems positively
exhaustless.
ISTor is her genius at all unequal to the higher walks of
thought and imagination, as witness " The First Eclipse," and
" The Frozen Ship." Whenever she has essayed these loftier
paths, she has trodden them with signal ease and success. If
her muse has turned more frequently and kindly to lighter
themes, it has been owing mainly to the genial and sunny temper
of her spirit, not to any lack of depth or energy.
Perhaps, however, the most popular and fascinating quality
of this writer's poetry is its complete harmony with herself.
This quality is obvious even to a cursory reader, who has never
seen her, from the singular vitality and freedom which pervade
the simplest emanations from her pen. To those who know
her, it is doubtless the most resistless charm of her productions.
Her poetry is not a creation so much as a revelation. It is the
simple exhibition of the riches of her soul, rather than the
coining of her subtlety.
Since the publication of this volume, Mrs. Johnson has
produced many poems, in which are apparent not only the best
characteristics of her former writings, but a new depth and
fervor. It is said, also, that she is engaged at present on a
romance in verse, which she intends to make the chef-d^o&uvre
of a new volume.
In many of the works of this writer we see glimpses of a sub-
stratum of passionate power, which has never yet been stirred.
A deep fountain was troubled at the death of her children, but
248 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
troubled by an angel ; and her songs only grew more low and
tender — tlie mother's pang lost in the mother's hope. But it is
evident that no shaft of agony has yet buried itself in the
intense silences of her nature. ISTo rankling thorn quivers in her
emotions — tips her words with arrowy flame — breaks the silvery
flow of her rhythm with gusts and gleams which will not be
controlled. Yet this latent force is revealed in the body and
poise of her writings.
The singular poem entitled "Hasheesh Yisions" would
seem to show no lack of impassioned element ; but, if it be not
the direct inspiration of the drug itself, it has the crazy play and
prodigality of words evolved from the heights of brain, and not
from the depths of feeling.
HASHEESH VISIONS.
Fiery fetters fiercely bound me,
Globes of golden fire rolled round me,
Jets of violet-colored flame
From ruby-crusted mountains came.
And, floating upward, wreatbed on bigli
Like gorgeous serpents through tbe sky,
To wbose rich coils the stars of night
Clung and became like scales of light ;
A crimson sea before me blushed,
To which ten thousand rivers rushed —
Ten thousand rivers, all of flame,
And as they hissing onward came,
Their burning waters seemed to pour
Along an opalescent shore,
"While, in that red deep, far away,
A myriad -opal islands lay.
"With eager, wistful gaze I turned
To where their dazzling splendors burned ;
KOSa VERTNER JOHNSON. 249
■With fearful struggles, stung by pain,
I rent my fiery bonds in twain.
And madly (when my limbs were free)
Plunged headlong in that lurid sea,
"Whose red and seething billows seemed
To mock me as they hissed and screamed ;
While tortured thus, scorched to the bone.
I drifted on with ceaseless moan,
Till, near those opal islands cast,
When (dreaming aU my anguish past)
I grasped a smooth and glittering shore
In vain, then drifted on once more ;
On, on, till countless isles were past,
And then a boiling wave at last
Spurned, flung me from its blazing crest,
To seem at least one moment blest,
"Upon an isle which seemed to be
The fairest in that wondrous sea ;
But on its cool and polished shore
My agony scarce ceased before
This beautiful and long- sought goal,
This Eldorado of my soul.
For which I yearned with wild desire,
Seemed thronged- with skeletons oifire^
That danced around me, shrieked my name,
And scorched me with their tongues of flame,
Till (in unutterable pain)
I prayed that lava sea in vain
To bear me from a haunted land,
To save me from that demon band.
That seized me with a flendish laugh,
And cups of flre then bade me quaff,
Until the withered flesh all peeled
From my parched bones, and left revealed
A skeleton like theirs ! a shell.
Red as the hottest flames of hell!
Then loud we laughed, and wide and far
Eang out that fiendish laugh, " ha, ha!"
250 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
In every wave an echo seemed,
Until the sea with laughter screamed ;
The blazing billows leaped on high,
And roared, their laughter to the sky,
Whose star-scaled serpents from afar
Hissed back a mocking laugh, "ha, ha!"
We tossed our flaming goblets up.
And danced and laughed, till every cup
Was drained, and still though wrung with pain,
We quaffed and danced and laughed again,
Till, faint with agony, a chill
Of horror seemed my frame to thrill.
The fire-fiends left me doubly curst
Cold ! freezing ! yet consumed by thirst.
I wore a form of flesh again.
And cried for " water," but in vain ;
And then an icy slumber fell
"Upon me, till the gushing swell
Of mountain torrents, in their strife,
* Awakened me to light and life —
To light and life, for now I stood •
Beside a cool, deep-shaded flood
Upon a shore so passing fair.
Its beauty brightened my despair
A moment, while the hope was nursed
That I might quench my frantic thirst.
Enchanting pictures ! bright and fine,
Enamelled on my heart they shine ;
That fresh green shore, that clear deep tide,
Whose waves o'er rocks of sapphire glide,
Until at last, with wildest leap.
Into a gulf more broad and deep
Than ten Niagaras swift they whirl
O'er crystal spars and crags of pearl !
But lo ! when on that moss-grown brink
I stooped my aching head to drink,
And sinking there a lotus-cup,
Kaised it in trembling gladness up,
ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON, 251
My parching lips gave forth a groan
To find tlie water turned to stone !
A chalice heaped with sapphires hright,
To mock me with their liquid light,
Jewels a king might proudly wear,
But which I cursed, in my despair.
And then with bitter anguish, flung
Back to th^tide from which they sprung.
The lotus bloom I Avould have torn
To atoms, but (as if in scorn,
Of my fierce rage, by' some weird power)
I found an alabaster flower,
Whose leaves and stem with matchless sheen
Of emerald seemed superbly green.
I climbed along the crags of pearl,
To head the waters in their whirl.
But when I bent in madness down
To where the white spray, like a crown
Of glory on the torrent gleamed, *
(Though o'er my brow its moisture streamed,)
With lips apart that longed to feel
A dewy freshness through them steal,
Upon my parched and swollen tongue
A shower of diamond gems was flung.
Oh ! what were gems to one who yearned
For water-drops, and would have spurned
Their wealth, to sip the dew that sleeps
"Within the hair-bells' azure deeps ?
Upon the shore again I rushed,
"Where countless fruits in beauty blushed,
Pomegranates, rare and ripe, and one,
"Whose rind was rifted by the sun,
Kevealed unto my ravished sight
The crimson pulp — Oh ! what delight
I felt, as quick, with throbbing heart,
I tore it eagerly apart.
Expecting then the fruity seed
"With red and luscious juice to bleed,
252 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Like those, which, at the far off South,
Distilled their sweetness in my mouth,
Long, long ago, when as a child.
By Hope and Love and Joy beguiled.
My trusting heart had never grieved
To find itself at last deceived.
But in that strange enchanted rind
No liquid sweetness did I find, ■
"Which (tempting while it half concealed)
A mass of rubies now revealed.
Of royal rubies, flashing there
To mock, and madden my despair,
I plucked an orange, when behold !
Within my hand it turned to gold ;
And when from loaded vines I tore
The purple grapes, that seemed to pour
Their honeyed juices on the ground.
Clusters of amethysts I found.
■■ If in a desert I had been.
Where gushing waters are not seen,
Nor luscious fruits (to tempt in vain),
Less terrible had been the pain
Of my fierce thirst ; and as I cried
For " water," fair forms seemed to glide
Beneath those haunted groves, who quaffed
From crystal cups bright draughts, and laughed
Derisive laughter — soft and clear.
As they approached me — near — so near
I almost caught their goblets bright,
When swift they turned in sudden flight.
And from afar, pealed forth those swells
Of laughter clear as silver bells.
Then others came, more fair, who reaped
The dripping vines, and gaily heaped
Each one within a jasper urn
Her stores of grapes, which seemed to turn
Beneath their hands to sparkling wine.
While useless gems they shone in mine.
ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 253
A vintage by a river's brink !
Yet no one offered me a drink
Of "wine or water, and ere long
The chorus of a vintage song
Came stealing to me, whence those maids
Had vanished 'mid ambrosial shades.
In quick pursuit, I followed where
Their voices rippled through the air,
Till Mind with anguish — cold as death,
Chilled (by the south wind's balmy breath),
Yet burnt by torturing thirst within,
Fiercer than memories of sin,
Beneath that lustrous summer sky,
I laid me down and prayed to die.
But vainly rose my mournful prayer,
The " King of Terrors " came not there;
And sudden darkness, like a spell.
Appalling darkness round me fell,
"Which reft the earth of light and bloom,
And steeped my soul in utter gloom.
I started up — the sun had set.
The torrent poured o'er crags of jet
Its inky waters — and o'er all
A black sky hung its funeral pall —
So black, the clouds that floated by
Seemed atoms rifted from the sky.
Black barks befcre me seemed to glide,
"Whose sails were hlacTcer than the tide,
Peopled by wild and frantic gholes.
Strange skeletons, as black as coals,
"Who on those ghostly decks had met
To quaff black blood from cups of jet.
The land I found so bright and warm.
Seemed stricken by a scathing storm ;
Its fruits and flowers of late so fair,
Hung now like ebon cinders there.
And groves which erst were green as spring.
Looked blacker than the raven's wing ;
254 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
So freezing cold the -wind had grown,
I seemed within the frozen zone,
And snow came drifting to the earth,
Black as the clonds that gave it hirth.
I saw it all — though wrapped in night —
Plainly as if revealed by light,
That rayless, dense, unbroken gloom
"Was suffocating as the tomb
To those who from long trances wake,
And strive their cofBn-lids to break,
(Discovered, when too late to save)
"Who slept, to wake within the grave !
Their agony, though keen, is brief.
But death came not to my relief.
And years of bitter pain they seemed,
Those torturing hours through which I dreamed-
TJpon that cold and dismal brink
I stooped my head and strove to drink
The murky waves, when through the dark
Came gliding up a spectral bark ;
I elimbed the deck, where demons stood,
And quenched my thirst at last, in l)lood!
They pledged me in that drauglit accurst,
And still I drank, to quench my thirst,
TJnmindfal that our black \>a.v\ swept
To where those maddened waters leapt.
Into that fathomless abyss,
TJntil I heard them scream and hiss
"Within my ears — on, on we dashed,
"While 'mid those jetty crags loud crashed .
Our sinking ship — on, on we rushed,
Till masts and timbers all were crushed,
"When, blind with blackness, 'mid the roar
Of inky waves, I heard no more.
ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 255
MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME,
SUaOESTED BY AN EXQUISITE BOUQUET SENT TO ME DURING A SEYBBB
ILLNESS.
Oh ! let them touch my burning brow,
The petals of those dewy flowers,
And let my spirit wander now,
Back through a mist of bygone hours,
To a sunny spot, in a far-off clime,
"Where I used to rove in my childhood's time.
My childhood's home ! how like a spell
Thy dear and sacred memory lies
Within my heart — as in a well
The trembling liglit of starry skies.
Gleams through its crystal depths at even,
Until they seem a second heaven.
And a sweet breath of southern air
Seems stealing gently by me now —
The same that stirred my sunny hair,
And blew the bonnet from my brow-
Long, long ago, when I had gone
To gather flowers at early dawn.
Again, with many a joyous bound,
My tiny footsteps swiftly pass
"Where golden buttercups were found
Half hidden 'mid the rustling grass,
And violets from the soft, green sod
Seemed meekly looking up to God,
There often have I paused to hear
The bee his drowsy matin sing.
Too gay and guileless then to fear
That honey-bees perchance might sting ;
256 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
My heart was all too fresh and -warm
To think of ill, or shrink from harm.
And now along the good old haU
Is scattered half my fragrant store,
For I have heard my mother's call,
And, dancing through the open door,
Her morning kiss I fondly meet.
And fling my treasures at her feet.
Then, with a light and stealthy tread,
I steal behind my father's chair,
To fling a garland o'er his head,
And twine it 'mid the silvery hair,
Till every rose with dewy glow
Seems blushing 'neath a drift of snow.
And now once more I seem to stauvx
Where long, dark shadows round me sweep,
My gipsy bonnet in my hand,
For the fuU sunlight dared not creep.
With all its glittering pomp, between
Those twining boughs of evergreen.
I loved the gay, glad things of earth,
The sunshine, birds, and streams, and flowers.
Yet would I hush my childhood mirth,
And through those dim, sequestered bowers,
In solitude, delight to steal, —
'Twas there I learned to think and feel.
And oft I've spread a banquet fair.
Of acorn-cup and rose-leaves bright,
That fairies might assemble there
To revel in the pale moonlight ;
I loved to dream of mysteries
Beneath those dark ancestral trees.
KOSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 257
That homestead is in ruins laid ;
Its fairest blossoms now are dead ;
Yet still their deep and solemn shade
Upon the waving grass is shed ;
Thus often sunshine will depart
But shadows linger on the heart.
And now when fever wildly burns
Within this sad and aching breast,
Mj spirit through the past returns,
Beneath that peaceful grave to rest ;
There Love a ceaseless vigil keeps,
And pensive Memory sometimes weeps.
The nestling of a wild bird's wings,
A star, a flower, a gush of rain.
The sight of sad or joyous things,
Oft make me seem a child again :
"With voiceless eloquence they come,
Bright phantoms of my childhood's home.
ANGEL WATCHERS.
Angel faces watch my pillow, angel voices haunt my sleep,
And upon the winds of midnight shining pinions round me sweep ;
Floating downward on the starlight two bright infant forms I see.
They are mine, my own bright darlings, come from Heaven to visit me.
Earthly children smile upon me, but those little ones above
"Were the first to stir the fountains of a mother's deathless love ;
And, as now they watch my slumber, while their soft eyes on me shii'
God forgive a mortal yearning still to call His angels mine.
Earthly children fondly call me, but no mortal voice can seem
Sweet as those that whisper " Mother!" 'mid the glories of my drear
Years will pass, and earthly prattlers cease perchance to lisp my nan
But my angel babies' accents shall be evermore the same.
17
258 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
And the bright band now aronnd me from their home perchance will rore,
In their strength no more depending on my constant care and love ;
But my first-born still shall wander from the sky, in dreams to rest
Their soft cheeks and shining tresses on an earthly mother's breast.
Time may steal away the freshness, or some whelming grief destroy
All the hopes that erst had blossomed in my summer-time of joy ;
Earthly children may forsake me, earthly friends perhaps betray,
Every tie that now unites me to this life may pass away.
But, unchanged, those angel watchers, from their blest immortal home,
Pure and fair, to cheer tTie sadness of my darkened dreams shall come.
And I cannot feel forsaken, for, though 'reft of earthly love,
Angel children call me "Mother!" and my soul will look above.
A LEGEND OF THE OPAL.
A Peri, from her sea-girt cave,
"Was wand'ring on a summer's even.
When white-caps crowned each swelling wave,
And clouds were on the face of heaven.
Her bark of light and fairy form.
Was anchored near a silvery strand,
While, heedless of the coming storm.
She roamed along the sparkling sand.
When sun, and sky, and water smiled,
Often she sported on the shore —
But never had this ocean-child
Beheld her father's wrath before.
The black cloud burst ! the lightning flashed !
Down rushed the floods of beating rain,
While billows caught the roar, and dashed
Their thundering echoes back again.
ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 259
As when in some deep wood to hide,
A bright and timid bird has flown,
Amid this strife of wind and tide,
The Peri stood, and watched alone,
Till the mad tempest ceased to rave,
Hushing awhile its demon yell,
And winds had muttered to each wave,
In moaning blasts, a low farewell.
Then, where dark clouds so late had driven.
And rolling thunders fiercely spoke,
Now sunlight through the gates of Heaven,
In streams of softest splendor broke.
And see, where drop and sunbeam met.
That beauteous arch, serenely proud,
As if some son of light had set
A seal of glory on the cloud.
It might be that a seraph's wing
Had swept along the moistened air,
And left its mingled hues to cling
And beam, a glittering circlet there.
The Peri gazed with ecstasy
Upon the rainbow's graceful form ;
For, ne'er till now, beheld her eye.
This brilliant of the sun and storm.
She ran to clasp within her arms
The band of soft and dreamy light,
But lo ! as on she sped, its charms
Fled faster from her eager sight.
"Alas!" she cried, " beneath the wave,
How many gems of beauty lie !
Tet none so fair within my cave.
As this rich jewel of the sky.
260 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" Oh ! could I seize tliat mystic gleam,
The inconstant lustre which I see,
Or of that bow but one soft beam,
To bear beneath the waves with me."
And as her tears her grief proclaim,
Filling her sad and downcast eye,
The angel of the rainbow came,
For she had heard the Peri's sigh.
"List, daughter of the dark blue sea.
Bright spirit of the restless deep,
A gem of light I'll give to thee,
Then mourn no more, and cease to weep."
The angel paused — then drawing near.
One lucid drop she quickly stays ;
And, crystallized, that Peri's tear
Flashed with the rainbow's countless rays.
The spirit faded from her sight.
But who the Peri's joy can tell?
When with its heart of prisoned light.
An Opal on her bosom fell!
And thus a mystic name in story,
This gem has borne for many a year,
Blending with all the rainbow's glory.
An ocean spirit's pearly tear.
THE KIGHT HAS COME.
The night has come, when I may sleep.
To dream — perchance of thee —
And where art thou ? Where south-winds sweep
Along a southei-n sea.
ROSA YERTXER JOHNSON. 261
Thy home, a glorious tropic isle
On which the sun with pride
Doth smile, as might a sultan smile
On his Circassian hride.
And where the south-wind gently stirs
A chime of fragrant bells,
While come the waves as worshippers,
"With rosary of shells,
The altars of the shore to wreathe,
Where, in the twilight dim.
Like nuns, the foam -veiled breakers breathe,
Their wild and gushing hymn.
The night has come, and I will glide
O'er sleep's hushed waves the while,
In dreams to wander by thy side
Through that enchanting isle.
For, in the dark, my fancy seems
As full of witching spells
As yon blue sky of starry beams
Or ocean-depth of shells.
Yet sometimes visions do becloud
My soul with such strange fears,
They wrap me like an icy shroud
And leave my soul in tears.
For once methonght thy hand did bind
Upon my brow a wreath
In which a viper was entwined
That stung me — unto death.
And once within a lotus cup,
Which thou to me didst bring,
A deadly vampire folded up
Its cold and murky wing;
262 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
And, springing from' that dewy nest,
It drained life's azui-e rills,
That wandered o'er my swelling breast .
Like brooks through snow-clad hills,
Yet seemed it sweeter thus to die
There, in thy very sight,
Than see thee 'neath that tropic sky,
As in my dreams last night.
For lo, within a palmy grove.
Unto an eastern maid
I heard thee whisp'riag vows of love
Beneath the feathery shade.
i
And stately as the palm was she,
Yet thrilled with thy wild words,
As its green crown might shaken be
By many bright-winged birds ;
And 'neath thy smile, in her dark eye,
A rapturous light did spring.
As in a lake soft shadows lie,
Dropped from the rainbow's wing.
No serpent from the wreath did start,
Which round her brow was twined ;
ITor in the lotus' perfumed heart
Did she a vampire find ;
For humming-birds were nestled there,
By summer sweets oppressed,
A type of her whose raven hair
Was floating o'er thy breast.
While thus I dreamed, all cold and mute,
My warm glad heart had grown
Like some fair flower or sunny fruit
Turned by the waves to stone ;
ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON. 263
♦
For o'er the treasures of my soul
There swept a blacker tide
Than e'en the dismal floods that roll
O'er Sodom's buried pride
But passed away that vision dark,
And now once more I come,
In slumber's slight, fantastic bark,
Unto thy island home ;
And thou art waiting there for me
To weep upon thy breast.
As on the shore the troubled sea
.Doth sigh itself to rest.
My wreath seems now of orange flowers^
And from the chaplet pale
Do glow-worms drop in shining showers
To weave my hridal veil.
The stars — God's holy tapers — flight
The altars of the shore,
And on us doth the solemn night
A benediction pour.
THE COMET OF 1858.
Oh, whither art thou hast'ning, in thy wild and wondrous flight?
Fair stranger with the silver plume, and panoply of light ?
Hast thou been sweeping ever thus, along the fields of space ?
Among the countless orbs on high, hast thou no resting-place ?
Thou art a mystery in the sky, as strange, and undefined.
And glorious, as a thought of God, within the human mind.
Bright and perplexing there, amid the knowledge of the soul,
As thou art, seen where yon calm stars their changeless courses roll.
A fairy web of crystal light, from Night's high dome of blue
Thy glory weaves, so delicate, the stars look softly through.
264 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
A mist so radiant, as we gaze, there lingers no regret,
That it doth shade the beacon-lamps on Heaven's high "watch-tower set.
One glory by another veiled, not lessened, as we trace
The light of God's refulgent smile, through the Redeemer's grace ;
A veil of love, so beautiful, we kneel adoring there.
And gazing up, behold it stirred by every breath of prayer.
Whence art thou now ? For centuries, long centuries have past.
Since upon mortal vision beamed thy peerless beauty last ;
And lo ! then thousand years may fling upon the past their gloom,
Ere mid yon shining host again shall wave thy royal plume.
Did'st spring up from the diamond dust of which the stars were formed ?
Art thou a spirit-star, within the sun's caresses warmed ?
Or a fierce, fiery missile, by the great Omniscient hurled.
To crush and blot from yonder sky some sin-beclouded world?
Perchance, thou art thyself a world, peopled by spirits lost ;
Souls doomed throughout immensity, forever to be tossed.
Fair, fallen angels ! who have lost their heritage in Heaven,
And further still from God must now eternally be driven.
Thou mind'st me of that wondrous plant, whose blossoms bless our eyes
Once in a hundred years — thou are the Aloe of the skies ;
Save, that a myriad radiant years doth seem a briefer time
To thee than mortal centuries, 'neath their clouds of grief and crime.
Thou mind'st me of the burning hopes that sometimes wildly start
From sorrow's night, and flash athwart the darkness of the heart.
Mysterious, and fantastic, not the Mrd-lihe hope, that springs
From youth's gay green- wood with the dew of freshness on its wings.
Phantoms of hope ! that lure us on, and mocking, bid us cling
To some blest idol which the heart has worshipped in its spring.
Vainly ! as dreaming hearts like mine may worship thee and mourn,
(When thou art lost) 'neath starry skies of half their glory shorn.
CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
Four years ago, while the MS. of her last work, " Ernest
Linwood," was yet in the hands of the printer, Mrs. Hentz
passed suddenly into the spirit-world. As a woman and friend
she was deeply mourned by the large circle which her graces
adorned, and the whole country sang a dirge for the author.
Yet Mrs. Hentz is still with us in her writings. They are
singularly vital with her personality. The sensibilities, which
gave to her such a power of enjoyment, and were, at the same
time, alive to " an angel's scope of agony," quiver hi her works
as truly as they once played upon her face or throbbed in her
pulses. Equally apparent on every page are the vigor and
vivacity, the moral perception, the religious faith, which
marked her life and conversation.
A rich " cabinet picture " of Mrs. Hentz, from the pen of her
intimate Mend, Madame Le Yert, will bring her vividly before
our readers :
" Some writer has said, ' authors should be read, not known '
— Mrs. Hentz is a bright exception to this remark. She is one
of those rare, magnetic women, who attract admiration at the
Urst interview. The spell she wove around me was like the
invisible beauty of music. I yielded willingly to its magic
influence.
"]!^ever have I met a more fascinating person. Mind is
enthroned on her noble brow, and beams in the glances of her
radiant eyes. She is tall, graceful and dignified, with that high-
265
26G WOMEN 0¥ THE SOUTH.
"bred manner wlaich betokens gentle blood. Sbe has infinite
tact and talent in conversation, and never speaks without
awakening interest. As I listened to ber eloquent language, I
felt tbat sbe was indeed wortby of the wreatb of immortality
wbicb fame bad given in otber days, and other lands, to a De
Genlis, or to a De Sevigne.
" She possesses great enthusiasm of character ; the enthu-
siasm described by Mme. De Stael, as ' God within us ' — the
love of the good, the holy and the beautiful. She has neither
pretension nor pedantry ; and, although admirably accomplished,
and a perfect classic and belles-lettres scholar, has all the sweet
simplicity of an elegant woman.
" Like the charming authoress, Fredrika Bremer, her works
all tend to elevate the tone of moral feeling. There is a refine-
ment, delicacy and poetic imagery in all her historiettes touch-
ingly delightful. A calm and pure religion is mirrored on every
page. The sorrow-stricken mourner finds therein the balm of
consolation, and the bitter tears cease to flow, when she points
to that ' Better Land,' where the loved and the lost are waiting
for us.
" Many of her words are gay and spiritual, full of delicate
wit, 'bright as the flight of a shining arrow.'. Often have the
smiles, long exiled from the lips, returned at the bidding of her
merry muse.
" Home, especially, she describes with enchanting truthful-
ness. She seems to have dipped her pen in her own soul, and
written of its emotions. She exalts all that is generous and
noble in the human heart, and gives to even the clouds of exis-
tence a sunny softness, like the dreamy light of a Claude Lor>
raine picture."
Caroline Lee "Whiting was a native of Lancaster, Massachu-
setts. Her father. General John Whitney, and two of her
brothers, were ofiicers in the U. S. army. Of the latter, General
CAROLINE LEE HEXTZ. 267
Henry Wliiting, a brave man and a scliolar, was aid-de-camp
to General Taylor, and distinguislied liimself in the Mexican
War.
Before onr writer had reached the age of thirteen, she was
the author of a poem, a novel, and a tragedy in five acts. In
1S25 she maiTied Mr. X. M. Hentz, a French gentleman, who,
jointly with Mr. Bancroft, the historian, conducted at that time
^ seminary at Northampton, Mass. Soon after, Mr. Hentz was
appointed Professor of Modern Languages in the College of
Chapel Hill, jSTorth Carolina. This position he occupied for
several years, and then removed with his family to Covington,
Kentucky, where Mrs. Hentz wrote her poj^ular drama, " De
Lara; or the Moorish Bride," for which she received five
hundred dollars and a gold medal, the prize ofiered in Philadel-
phia for the best original tragedy. It was brought out at the
Arch street Theatre of that city, and enacted for many suc-
cessive nights with eclat. It afterward appeared in book form.
From Covington they removed to Cincinnati, Ohio, and
thence, in 1834, to Locust Hill, in Florence, Alabama, where
for nine years tliey had charge of a flourishing female academy,
la 184:3 they transferred this institution to Tuscaloosa ; thence,
in 1845, to Tuskegee, and again, in 1848, to Columbus, Georgia,
where our author resided at the time of ■ her death in 1856.
These frequent changes, and the arduous duties of their
school, afforded Mrs. Hentz little opportunity for literary labor,
and not until their removal to Columbus was she able to write
with any degree of regularity.
Her second tragedy, '" Lamorah, or the Western Wilds,''
appeared in a newspaper at Columbus ; while a third, " Countess
of Wirtemberg," is still, we think, unpublished. .
In 1843, she wrote a poem, " Human and Divine Philo-
sophy," for the Erosophic Society of the University of Alabama.
She is best known by her spirited novelettes, contributed to
268 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
•
different periodicals, and reproduced from time to time, in
published volumes.
In 1846, she brought out " Aunt Patty's Scrap-Bag," a
collection of short stories, written for magazines. This was
followed, in 1848, by "Mob Cap," which obtained a prize of
two hundred dollars. Both of these books have been univer-
sally read and admired.
In 1850, she published " Linda, or the Young Pilot of the
Belle Creole ;" in 1851, " Rena, or the Snow Bird ;" in 1852,
" Marcus Warland, or the Long Moss Spring ;" and " Eoline, or
Magnolia Yale ;" in 1853, " Wild Jack," and " Ellen and Arthur,
or Miss Thusa's Spinning Wheel;" in 1854, "The Planter's
^Northern Bride,'^ which took rank at once among our best
novels ; and in 1856, her master-piece and requiem, " Ernest
Linwood." Some extracts from a notice of our own, which
appeared at that time in the " Evening Mirror," may recall the
tender pathos and force of this book, with the touching acces-
sories of its publication :
" ' Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings.
But the sweetest song is the last he sings.' "
"In the volume, '^Ernest Linwood,' just issued by Jewett
& Co., of Boston, we have the dying song of the gifted Mrs.
Caroline Lee Hentz. Mournfully sweet, like the sigh of an
^Eolian lyre, yet deep and oracular as the voice of many waters,
it seems to have been poured forth while her soul floated down
to the ocean of Rest. On almost every page we can trace the
shadow of the death angel, who bore her away when her song
was ended. Mysterious gleams from beneath the uplifting veil
of spirit-land startle us as we read. The book is a broad-cast
farewell — a lingering hand-grasp from one we loved. If we
mistake not, its most impressive passages are revelations pf the
CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 269
inner life of the writer — wonderfully vivid and absorbing,
because wonderfully real,
" We will not attempt to follow out, in this notice, the thread
of an inimitable tale ; in so doing, we should only anticipate
scenes and events, which come, with beautiful linkings and fine
effect, before the eye of the reader. We would not rob the
book of half its charm.
" Sweet Gabriella Lynn will tell her own story. Warm
tears will spring into bright eyes, as they look opon the dream-
child — the impassioned school-girl — standing beneath the
'beetling brows' of the powerful preceptor, to hear sentence
pronounced upon her first written dream of poetry. The pant-
ing of that heart, when the taunting criticism fell — the sudden
spring — tlie snatching of the manuscript — the flight into the
woods — the passionate outburst upon the green turf — the blessed
ministration of a gentle, sad-eyed mother — will carry many a
heart back to the shadows of school-days and the rich sunlight
of home.
" We linger over the exquisite picture of the child Gabriella,
peering with deep eyes into the mist that surrounded her, and
vainly seek with her to fathom the mystery of life. We look
with her upon the classic face of her dead mother, Rosalie, and
wonder at the mystery of death. We follow her to the end, for
she is the one silver thread always visible. Every scene is a
reality, and each succeeding scene more real, more luminous
than the last. The writer seems to gather power and inspiration
as she advances, pouring out her life, like the dying swan, in
strains of painful sweetness.
" The characters in this book are drawn with masterly skill.
Each has an individuality and a relative importance, without
which the story would be incomplete. Ko diabolical agent
drags its slimy length along its pages, but we are held spell-
bound by the delineations of a fault, and the natural conse-
270 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.-
quences of a fault, whicli develops itself at every turn in life.
' Ernest Linwood ' — the lordlj in intellect — tlie peerless in beaut j
and manhood — whose ' eyes with a thousand meanings,' gaze
into our very souls, is made the temple of the unhallowed
passion of jealousy. Its purple light, at' intervals, towers above
every noble element of his nature, but, with the gentle Gabriella,
we always pity, always forgive, and he is at last lifted, by sor-
rowful lessons and earnest prayers, from his inglorious thralldom.
" Margaret Melville, or ' Meg the Dauntless,' is a life-like,
genuine character — the rarest spice of the tale, though she does
come in always at unseasonable hours. We like her, notwith-
standing her hoydenish eccentricities.
" Let those who are accustomed to give voice and wings to
scandalous gossip, hiding beneath the broad garments of an
irresponsible ' They Say,' let such find in the book ' Ernest Lin-
wood,' their unmasked and hideous faces.
" The graces of the true Christian are beautifully marked in
the character of Mrs. Linwood, and a recognition of an over-
ruling Power is everywhere apparent.
" All the writings of Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz indicate fine
and keen sensibilities of soul. It is a sweet assurance that they
drink only the beautiful now — thrill only to divinest harmonies."
The short poems of Mrs. Hentz, are' scattered in various
periodicals. They are full of the tender warmth of the writer's
nature, and flow and gush, and sparkle, as naturally as a wood-
' land brook.
Her tragedy, " De Lara, or the Moorish Bride," stands first
among her poetical works, and holds high rank in the dramatic
literature of America. It is remarkable for its depth of thought
and force of utterance, its searching insight and poetic beauty.
The scenes and incidents of Mrs. Hentz's stories were drawn
almost entirely from southern life. She wrote with singular
grace and facility, sitting down in the midst of tlie family circle,
CAROLINE LEE EENTZ. 27l
and taking up lier pen, as one has said, very much " as. others
do their knitting," to dash off sheet after sheet in perfect order
for the printer.
A new, complete, and uniform edition of Mrs. Hentz's works
has been given to the world since her death, by Peterson &
Brothers, of Philadelpliia.
•'THEY SAY."
They say ! Who are they ? Who are the cowled monks, tlie liooded
friars, who glide with shrouded faces in the procession of life, muttering
in an unknown tongue words of mysterious import ? Who are they ?
The midnight assassins of reputations, who lurk in the by-ways of society,
with dagger tongues, sharpened by invention and envenomed by malice,
to draw the blood of innocence, and, hyena-like, banquet on the dead.
Who are they? They are a multitude no man can number, black-stoled
familiars of the inquisition of Slander, searching for victims in every city,
town, and village, wherever the heart of humanity throbs, or the ashes
of mortality find rest. Give me the bold brigand, who thunders along
tbe highways with flashing weapon, that cuts the sunbeams as well as
the shades. Give me the pirate, who unfurls the black flag, and shows
the plank which your doomed feet must tread ; but save me from the
They-sayers of society, whose knives are hidden in a velvet sheath, whose
bridge of death is woven of flowers, and who spread, with invisible poi-
son, even the spotless whiteness of the winding sheet.
FAME.
To touch the electric wire, and feel the bolt scathing one's own brain ;
to speak, and hear the dreary echo of one's voice return through the
desert waste ; to enter the temple, and find nothing but ruins and desola-
tion ; to lay a sacrifice on the altar, and see no flre from heaven descend
in token of acceptance ; to stand the priestess of a lonely shrine, uttering
oracles to the unheeding wind — is not such, too often, the doom of those
who have looked to fame as their heritage ?
272 WOMEN or the south.
UNION WITHOUT LOVE.
"Woe to her, who, forgetting this heavenly union, bathes her heart in
the earthly stream, without seeking the living spring whence it flows ;
who worships the fire-ray that falls upon the altar, without giving glory
to Him from whom it descended. The stream will become a stagnant
pool, exhaling pestilence and death ; the fire-ray wiU kindle a devouring
flame-, destroying the altar with the gift, and the heart a 'burning l>u&h,
that will blaze forever without consuming.
THE BLACK MASK.
"No, I will not go to-night," exclaimed Blanche, taking from her
head a bandeau of pearls, and tossing it into the hands of her attendant.
"No, I will not go — ^I am weary most of aU of talking and listening to
nonsense. I will stay at home, and enjoy the supreme luxuries of sim-
plicity, quiet, and solitude. Yes ! solitude ! for dear Mrs. Channing is
gone to an old-fashioned tea-party, and you, Elsie, are not to disturb me,
after I have once composed myself to the task of admiring myself, lyy
myself."
" But this beautiful dress ?" cried her obsequious chambermaid.
" Put it back in the wardrobe."
" These pearls ?"
" In the case."
" These flowers ?"
" Ah ! give me the flowers. Th^y are beautiful, they breathe of nature,
and I love them. Here, take this heavy comb from my hair," continued
the capricious beauty, and then shaking her hair loosely over her shoul-
ders, and untying the bouquet, she twisted the flowers into a careless
garland and twined it round her head.
"And now, Elsie, give me that simple white robe, fastened with blue
ribbons. You must confess it is ten thousand times prettier than the one
you have just put aside. Ah, me ! I wish I were nothing but a plain
country lassie, left to wander about at my own sweet will."
"I think somebody has her own sweet will now," said Elsie to her-
self, vexed to think that her young and beautiful mistress was going to
CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
l^/a
shut herself up at home, instead of exhibiting herself to the admiring
crowd.
" But what shall I say to Mr. Orne, when he calls to attend you?"
" Tell him I cannot, will not go to-night."
" He will be angry."
" I care not — but he is too stupid to be angry. Besides, he has no cause,
for I gave no promise to accompany him."
Elsie, who was accustomed to the varying moods of Blanche, sighed
as she put away the beautiful paraphernalia of fashion, with which she had
hoped to adorn her mistress for the evening's fete, while Blanche, telling
her she had no further need of her services, descended to the little room
she called her boudoir. And a charming little room it was — a perfect
lijou of a room — fitting palace for a fairy queen. It is no wonder that
she liked sometimes to rest on that soft, blue-cushioned sofa, and look
around on all the exquisite adornments her own taste had selected. Cur-
tains of blue damask, her favorite color, shaded the window ; the glass
doors of her cabinet were lined with the same cerulean hue; and even
the figures of the carpet were blue, melting off in a background of white.
Little Cupids, painted in fresco, on the ceiling, seemed to fan her with
their wings, and Cupids, still smaller, fashioned of marble, supported the
Iamp6 that glittered on the mantel-piece. There were ever so many
Cupids, little, less, least, bronze, porcelain, and glass, on the shelves of
the etagere^ which looked like a royal baby-house, with its magical toys
and indescribable curiosities. The only thing of use on which the eye
could rest was a magnificent harp, supported by a lazy-looking Cupid,
lurking in the corner of the apartment, thus throwing the illusion of
mythology and poetry over an instrument in itself most poetical and
romantic. Blanche gathered back the azure folds of the curtains into the
gilded hands that issued from the walls, ready to grasp them, drew the
light sofa near the window, and seating herself upon it, looked admirably
in keeping with all the surrounding objects. She, too, wore the livery
of white and blue, and soft and bright sparkled her bright blue eyes
beneath her white brow. Her heart, moreover, was clothed with the
whiteness of innocence, and the blue of hope fluttered gaily as a silken
ribbon over a spotless surface. Though the child of wealth, and the idol
of fashion, she was yet unspoiled by their influence. Her caprices were
white, fleecy clouds, floating over the clear blue of an April morning.
One thing more completed the livery. Blanche, sweet, charming, capri-
18
274 WOMEX 0^ THE SOUTH.
cious, Mue-eyed Blanche, witli sorrow we confess it, had a tinge of the
Mues. Listen to her thoughts, as they move with their low whispers the
folds of her mnslin rohe :
" I want to he alone, and yet I want some one near to whom I can
say — 'How sweet it is to he alone.' The pleasures of society — how I
panted for them when I was a foolish little school-girl, pining for liberty
that I cannot now enjoy ! And for a while, I did enjoy them vividly,
wildly. It was rapturing to be thought beautiful, to be admired and
caressed and loved. Loved ? No. I have never yet been really loved.
Love disdains flattery and adulation. My own heart will bear witness
when it is true and honest. ' Yes,' added she, laying her hand on its
gentle, uniform throbbing, ' the voice has never yet breathed into my
ears that can quicken the pulsations of this heart of mine. I look in vain
among the cold, vapid devotees of fashion for one touch of nature, one
flash of passion. I shall mingle with them till I become as cold, as vain,
as vapid myself. I shall live and die, and the world will never know what
I might have been, from what I am, and what I shall be."
"And yet," added the ennuyee, "I am wrong to say I have never
been loved. There is one I know, who, I believe, loves me well, and
whom I have sometimes thought I might love in return, did I meet him
anywhere save in the cold halls of fashion. Could he throw any romance,
any mystery around' him, I might possibly become interested in him.
There would be nothing heroic or self-sacrificing in my loving him, for
fortune smiles upon him, and friends are zealous to promote his cause,
"Were he poor, I could enrich him with my wealth. Were he lowly, I could
ennoble him with my connesions ; or, were I poor and lowly, he could prove
the disinterestedness of his attachment. I cannot bear this common-place
kind of wooing, this dull, matter-of-fact kind of existence. I could envy the
wild love of O'Connor's child, ' the bud of Erin's royal tree of glory,' though
thrice-dyed in blood was the tissue of her mournful story." •
If the remarks of Blanche seem incoherent, let it be remembered that
she is conversing with herself, and every one knows how wildly the thoughts
may run, when imagination is let loose.
" Let me see," said the romantic damsel ; " cannot I do something to
charm the solitude that already begins to weary me ? Ah, there is my
harp ; I do love its sounding strains. How charming it would be to have
some young hero bending over me as I play, while I drank in inspiration
from his kindling eyes !"
CAROLINE LEE HEXTZ. 276
Drawing the liarp near her, she passed her hands over its golden .chords,
and made a sweet wild medley of strains, caught up from many a remem-
bered song. Her hair, as it swept over her white arms, against the glit-
tering wires, resembled the golden locks of the maiden whose ringlets
were twined into the chords, from which such exquisite music had been
drawn. Long she played and sang, till the little Cupids on the walls ,
looked as if they were flying about inspired by her thrilling notes. She
did not hear the sound of entering footsteps; but a shadow fell upon the
harp, and she looked up. A tall, dark figure stood before her, black
from head to foot. Supposing it a negro who had boldly intruded into
her presence, she uttered an exclamation of terror, and sprang toward
the door.
"Pardon this intrusion,^' said the stranger, in a gentle voice, bowing
gracefully as he spoke ; "I did not mean to terrify, and if you will
grant me a few moments'" audience, j^ou will find you have no cause to
fear."
She observed with astonishment, that the hand which he slightly
extended in speaking, was almost as fair as her own, while his face was
as black as night. Still trembling with terror, though somewhat reassured
by the sweetness of his voice, she ventured to look on him more stead-
fastly, and discovered that he wore a mask of black enamel, above which
his raven black hair clustered, making of the head one ebon mass.
*' How did you gain admittance?" she asked, tremulously. "And what
is your errand with me ?" '
" WiU you forgive me," he answered, " when I say, that, attracted by
the sweetness of your voice, as it was borne through the open windows,
by the breath of night, I have dared to present myself before you, believ-
ing that the same instinct which caused my presumption will plead for
my pardon, and secure my welcome ?"
"Indeed, sir," exclaimed Blanche, her cheek glowing with anger, "this
is an intrusion I consider unpardonable. As neither pardon nor welcome
awaits you here, I trust you will leave me immediately. To a gentleman,
the request of a lady has the authority of a command."
Blanche was astonished at her own courage in thus daring to address
the masked and mysterious stranger. Though angry at his presumption,
she could not repress a keen delight at an adventure so singular and
romantic. The indescribable charm of his voice had disarmed her terroi',
and the grace and dignity of his mien spoke the polished and high-bred
276 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
gentleman. But tlie black mask — the sudden entrance — the lonely honr — ■
the stillness of the night — these things pressed upon her heart, and its
throbbings became quick and loud.
"Permit me," said the stranger, "before I depart, to repay you, if pos-
sible, for the soothing pleasure your music has imparted. I, too, am a son
of song, and like the bards of Ossian, I love to wake the breezy melody of
the harp-string."
While he was speaking, he approached the instrument from which she
Lad retreated at his entrance, and kneeling on one knee, he swept his hands
over the chords, making a prelude of such surpassing sweetness, she held her
breath to listen. Then mingling with the diapason the rich tones of his
Toice, he began a song whose words seemed the improvisation of genius, for
they applied to herself,, the hour, the meeting, in strains of such wondrous
melody, she felt under the dominion of enchantment. Never before had she
heard such music as came gushing through that ebon mask, filling the room
with a flood of harmony which almost drowned her sinking spirit. Unable
to bear up under the new and overpowering emotions that were oppressing
her, she sunk back on the sofa, and tears stole from her downcast eyes.
The stranger paused, and rising, leaned gracefully on the harp from which
he had been calling forth such celestial notes.
" You weep," said he ; " but they are not tears of sorrow. You would
not exchange those tears for the false smiles which would have gilded your
face had you mingled in the crowd, an instinct of your heart led you this
night to avoid. You shunned the giddy throng. You sought the solitude
of this delicious apartment only that you might meet a kindred spirit here.
Farewell ! we shall meet again. No earthly barrier could now keep us
asunder."
Stooping down and picking up a rose that had fallen from her hair, and
putting it in his bosom, he added :
"This flower shall be sent. to you as a token when I am again near."
He turned, and was about to leave the apartment, when, urged by irre-
sistible curiosity, she exclaimed :
" Before you depart, let me behold the face of my mysterious friend, and
tell me why you wear so strange and solemn a disguise."
" I cannot break a vow that I have imposed on myself," replied the black-
masked stranger. " It is only at the nuptial altar that I can lift the dark
visor which conceals my features. The woman who can love me well
enough to unite her fate with mine, unknowing what thi.s mask conceals,
CAROLINE LEE HE NTZ. . 277
whether it be matchless beauty or unequalled deformity, will alone have
power to remove the disguise whose midnight shadow now darkens the
moonlight of your beauty. Do you believe that spiritual, high-souled, trust-
ing woman exists? Do you believe such love can be found?"
"I know nothing of love/' she answered, endeavoring to speak coldly;
but her voice unconsciously obeyed the spell that was upon her, and its
modulations were soft as the breathings of her own dulcet harp,
"Happy is he who will teach thee its divine lore," said the stranger,
again seating himself by her side. "O, maiden, more beautiful than the
dream of the poet, more pure than the vision of infancy," continued he,
in a strain of romantic enthusiasm, such as she never had expected to
hear from mortal lips, "be it mine to instill this wisdom into the heart
that is even now sighing to receive it. Mine be the master hand that
will touch the golden chords of sympathy, and awaken all your slumber-
ing being to the music of love."
"0, that I dared to believe — that I dared to listen!" cried Blanche,
carried out of herself by an influence that seemed electric ; " but this
interview, so sudden, so mysterious, your strange vow, your dark eclipse,
the commanding power you exert over my will — ah, leave me. I cannot
bear the ojjpressioa that is weighing down my heart."
"I obey you," he cried, again rising. "For worlds I would not en-
croach on the goodness that has forgiven my presumption, or the gentle-
ness and sensibility that plead even now, with eloquent tongue, the cause
of your mysterious friend. Farewell. For the rose of which I have
robbed you, accept tliis diamond ring."
"Taking her hand, and encircling her finger with the brilliant token,
be passed through the door like a vision of night, leaving her speechless
and spell-bound. So startling, so thrilling was the pressure, she sat like
one in a nightmare. She had almost imagined herself in a dream, in the
presence of her mysterious guest ; but the warm, soft pressure of that
ungloved hand assured her of the reality of the scene. Then the ring
that glittered on her finger with such surpassing brightness, the golden
circle with its star-like gem, that seemed to burn into her flesh, so strongly
did it warm and accelerate the current that was glowing and rushing
through her veins! Astonished, bewildered, terrified, but charmed at a
romance exceeding her wildest hopes, she flew upstairs to her dressing-
room, where Elsie sat slumbering in an easy-chair, thus beguiling the time
of her mistress' absence. Blanche had always made a confidant of Elsie,
278 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
and now her heart -would have burst with its strange secret if she could
not have confided it to another. She awoke the slumbering girl, and
related the astonishing, the almost incredible incident.
" Impossible!" cried Elsie ; " it must have been a delusion of the senses."
"But this ring — this surely is a reality. Did you ever see anything
so surpassingly brilliant ?" and she turned the radiant token tiU it flashed
back the lamplight dazzlingly into the wondering eyes of the girl.
" 0, for the love of the blessed Virgin!" she exclaimed (Elsie was a
devout Catholic), " for the love of your own sweet soul, don't wear it. It is
a magic ring, I am sure, and the black man that put it there may be Lucifer
himself, for aught you know."
" My good Elsie, how can you be so foolish and superstitious ? Even if I
could believe in the incarnation of an evil spirit, it never could assume a form
so gracious, or speak in a voice so sweet. O, never did I hear such a voice
of music ! Though I could not see his face, his eyes beamed resplendently
through his mask, and his hand is the fairest I ever beheld."
" But why should he put on that ugly mask, unless he has some evil pur-
pose ?"
" He is under a vow to wear it till "
Blanche paused and blushed, and then blushed more painfaUy, because
she was so foolish as to blush at all,
" I have no doubt he wears it to cover some horrible mark," cried Elsie,
shuddering and crossing herself.
" Impossible."
"I dare say he has the face of a skeleton underneath. I have heard of
such things."
"Silence, Elsie ! it is sacrilege to talk as you do."
But though Elsie bridled her tongue, the disagreeable impression her
words had produced still remained. The possibility of their truth chilled
the glowing romance of Blanche's feelings, and checked the enthusiasm with
which remembrance dwelt on her mysterious visitor. Blanche bound Elsie
by a promise not to mention the incident to Mrs. Channing, the lady who
acted as maternal guardian to the orphan Blanche, and presided over the
mansion of her youthful charge. All the next day Blanche remained in a
kind of dreamy abstraction, the color coming and going on her beautiful
cheek, and her soft blue eyes suffused with a misty languor. Sometimes she
delighted herself in picturing the features that the shrouding mask concealed
as the ideal of manly beauty; then again the horrible suggestions of Elsio
CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 270
would recur to her and fill her with nameless apprehensions. She thought
of the veiled Prophet of Khorassan, the doom of the helpless Zelica,' and the
unutterable horrors concealed by the silver veil. She remembered the
beautiful Leonora and the phantom horseman, whose skeleton visage was
hidden by the closed bars of his visor, and who bore his confiding bride to
the ghastly churchyard and the yawning grave. She remembered that his
form wore the semblance of manly grace, and that his voice had a tone of
more than earthly sweetness.
" How foolish, how childish I am!" thought she, smiling at the super-
stitious images on which she had been dwelling. " The silver- veiled
Mokanna and the Phantom Husband of Leonora were beings existing only in
the imagination of the poet, whom the genius of the painter has also deline-
ated. But the black-masked stranger is a living, breathing actuality, of
whose existence and presence I have a dazzling token."
Another idea disturbed her excited brain. Perhaps she was the sport of
some bold youth, who, knowing her romantic temperament, had thus sought
to play upon her credulity and expose her to the ridicule of the world. So
strong became this conviction, that when evening came on, and she was
summoned, as usual, to entertain her admiring visitors, she fancied she could
trace in many forms a similitude to the lineaments of the graceful stranger.
But no. It was an illusion of the imagination. ISTo figure half so gracefcd,
no voice half so sweet as his. Ifever had the conversation of her compan-
ions seemed half so uninteresting and commonplace, never had the hours
appeared so long and leaden. She played upon her harp, but her own strains
recalled the ravishing melody of his, and her hands trembled as they swept
the sounding strings. She talked and smiled, and tried to chain her wander-
ing thoughts, but they would stay far out in the moonlight night, where
fancy followed the dark form of the stranger. As her white hands threaded
the golden wires, the diamond ring flashed upon her eye its ominous splen-
dors, and filled her with wild emotions.
"St. Cecilia called down an angel from the skies," said one of her guests,
gazing upon the gem that coruscated upon her finger, "but you seem to
have drawn one of the stars of heaven from its home in the skies, to sparkle
upon your hand. There must be a magic in that ring, for never did your
harp discourse such witching music."
Blanche turned away her face to hide her conscious blushes, and at the
same time the words of Elsie, foolish and superstitious as they were, occurred
to her, and the roseate cloud melted awny in tlie whiteness of snow.
280 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
One by one her guests departed, and she was left alone. She listened to
the echo of their departing footsteps, till the stillness of death pervaded the
apartment. She could distinctly hear the quick beatings of her heart, and
her robe fluttered as visibly over its palpitations as the azure curtains rustling
in the soft breath of night.
" "Why do I linger here ?" said she, looking out into the calm majesty and
loveliness of a cloudless evening. " I will not remain, as if seeking an inter-
view with one whose fascinations, I feel, I never could resist. Where there
is mystery there is always danger. I thank my guardian angel for whisper-
ing this caution to my heart."
At this moment something flew like a light-winged bird by her cheek,
and fell rustling at her feet. It was something enveloped m a soft, white
tissue. She opened it and beheld her own faded rose ; while she gazed with
mingled shame and delight on the sweet but wilted token, the soft sound of
entering footsteps met her ear, and the tall, black-masked stranger stood
before her.
She no longer feared him. She even welcomed his approach with a
strange rapture, that sent the warm blood bounding through her veins and
eddying in her cheeks. He sat down by her side, and his low, sweet, mellow
voice uttered words of wondrous fascination. She listened like one entranced,
forgetting the fate of Zelica, and the doom of Leonora. Indeed, had she
known that the same dark destiny awaited her, she could not have broken
the spell that enthralled her. For hours he lingered at her side, Tvhile his
eyes, like stars shining through a midnight cloud, were beaming with mys-
terious splendor upon her brow. Her will bowed before his mighty will, and,
ere she was aware of the act, she had sealed her heart's warrant for life or
death. She had consented to follow him to the altar, and unveil with her
rash and daring hand the brow now covered with so dark an eclipse.
*' You love me," cried the stranger, while his voice trembled with ecstasy ;
" you love me with that pure, spiritual love, which, born on earth, is but a
type of an immortal wedlock. You will love me still, whatever be the fea-
tures this gloomy mask conceals. Be they those of a fiend, you will not love
me less ; be they those of an angel, you will not love me more."
And Blanche bowed her fair head on his shoulder, and was constrained to
utter :
" Angel or fiend, I must love thee still."
*' To-morrow, then, at this hour, I shall come and claim thee for my
bride. N'ay, speak not of delay, for my destiny must be fulfilled. You shall
CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 281
know when I am near, but not by this faded token. The pledge of my
coming shall breathe of life, and joy, and hope."
Pressing her hand gracefully to his heart, he disappeared, while Blanche
trembled and wept at the remembrance of the vow she had plighted.
Released from the magic of his presence, she saw her rashness, her madness,
and infatuation, in their true light. She felt she was rushing blindfold to the
verge of perdition. She was terrified at the intensity of her emotions.
Better were it for her heart to remain in the torpor over which it had been
mourning, than awake to a sense of life so keen as almost to amount to agony.
She was like the blind suddenly restored to sight, with a flood of noonday
glory pouring on the lately darkened vision. She was fainting from excess
of light.
Softly she ascended to her chamber, so as not to arouse the sleeping
Elsie, whose remarks she now dreaded to hear ; but so light were her slum-
bers, they vanished at the soft rustJe of Blanche's muslin robe.
"I saw him!" she cried, dispersing the mist of sleep from her eyelids ; "I
saw him from the windov,' as he entered, and I have been praying the blessed
Yii'gin ever since, to shield you from harm."
" You must have been praying in your sleep, then," said Blanche,
" Oh, dear mistress, do not see him again. You will find he is some mur-
derer who has a brand on his forehead "
" Stop, Elsie," cried the shuddering Blanche. " It is slander. I will not
permit it."
" And besides," continued the persevering girl, " I dare say the barbarians
have cut off his nose and cropped his ears into the bai'gain. People never
hide their beauty under a mask."
"Elsie, leave my room if you cannot be silent," said Blanche, with rising
courcge.
Elsie obeyed her, but muttered something about sulphur and hoofs, as she
closed the door behind her.
''How very impertinent Elsie is growing!" cried Blanche, throwing her-
self weeping upon the bed. " But how can I expect to retain the respect of
a maid, when I have forfeited my own self-esteem ? Alas ! what if her sar-
mises be true ? "What if the brand of indelible disgrace be stamped upon
that brow where I have imagined more than mortal beauty dwells ? What
if, instead of a nose which Phidias might have taken as a model for one of
the gods of Greece, there should be only a frightful cavity, a horrible dis-
figurement!"
282 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Recoiling at the awful picture Elsie's fertile imagination had conjured,
she spread her hands before her face, to shut out a vision so appalling. It
was strange — in his presence she had a perfect conviction that his mask con-
cealed the face of an angel, while in his absence the conviction faded, and the
most terrific fancies usurped its place.
"O, that I could recall my fatal pledge!" she cried to herself, as she
tossed upon her restless couch. " But it is given, and be it for weal or woe,
I must abide by the result."
The next evening Mrs. Channing, the kind maternal friend whom
Blanche had so dearly loved, remained by her, as if drawn toward her by
some unusual attraction. Never had she been so tender, so affectionate.
Blanche gazed upon her with bitter self-reproach, thinking how ill she was
about to requite her guardian's cares. She longed to throw her arms around
her neck, reveal her secret, and pray her to save her from the delusions of
her own heart.
"I fear you are not well, my sweet child," said the lady, in soothing-
accents. " Indeed, I have noticed, all day, that you have looked feverish and
ill. Do not sit in the night air, in that thin dress, too. Why, my dear, you
are dressed like a bride. I did not know that you were going abroad to-
night. I fear this life of pleasure will wilt the roses of your youth "
"I have promised to go," she said, avoiding the glances of her friend,
" and I cannot break my word. But it is the last time — indeed, it is the
last."
"While she was speaking, a white rose-bud fell at her feet.
"See," said Mrs. Channing, smiling, "see what the breeze has blown to
you. It must be a token of happiness — fit emblem of your beauty and inno-
cence."
" Do you think it a token of happiness ?" cried Blanche, eagerly gather-
ing up the well-known signal. " Thank you for the words. I go with a
lighter heart. Farewell, kindest and best of friends. Heaven bless you, for
ever and ever."
Pressing her quivering lips on the placid forehead she might never again
behold, she glided from the room. She dreaded meeting Elsie, but was com-
pelled to go to her chamber for her mantle and veil, and there she encoun-
tered her faithful and remonstrating friend. When Blanche, with a face as
pale as marble, threw her mantle over her shoulders, and cast a light veil
over her golden locks, Elsie seemed to divine her purpose, and entreated her
to remain.
CAROLINE LEE UENTZ. 283
" Oh, it is like a bride you are dressed," she cried, "with those pearls on
your neck and arms, and that beautiful white rose-bud on your bosom."
Blanche could not leave her faithful attendant without some memorial of
her love. Opening her jewel-case, she took out a costly necklace and ring.
"Take these," she said, "as a memento of my attachment, and as a
reward for your fidelity. Betray me not on your soul's life, and may the
blessed Virgin you worship be propitious to you as you are true to me."
Elsie suifered the jewels to fall from her hand, and casting herself at the
feet of Blanche, she wrapped her arms about her knees, and implored her,
with tears and sobs, not to go with that dreadful man.
"Eelease me !" cried Blanche, ready to faint with conflicting emotions.
"Delay me not a moment longer!" Then snatching her mantle from her
grasp, and leaving her prostrate and weeping on the floor, she flew down-
stairs, through the open door, and found herself in the arms of that dark and
nameless being, to whom she was about to confide herself forever. He bor©
her, almost fainting, into a carriage that was waiting at the gate, and the
horses, black as night, started ofiT at a furious speed. They left the crowded
city far behind them, and rode out into the open fields, where the moonbeams,
unobstructed by high granite walls, shone resplendently upon her pallid face
and the polished surface of his enamel mask.
""Whither are you bearing me?" she faintly asked, as the small pebble*
flashed fire beneath the horses' flying hoofs.
"To a second Eden, where love immortal blooms," he answered, folding
her close to his heart. Forward, they went with the same bewildering speeds
The trees swept by them, like dark-green spirits in a rushing dance. Tali
monuments, gleaming white and ghostly, ghastly and cold, shot swiftly by
them, in the quivering moonshine.
" Oh, whither are you bearing me ?" again she asked, almost expecting
him to answer :
"See there, see here, the moon shines clear —
Hurrah, how swiftly speeds the dead !"
" I am bearing you to the gate of Heaven," he replied ; " for surely tho
house of God is such. Far away in the deep woods there is a Gothic church,
where a holy priest is waiting to crown with his blessing the purest, deepest
love that ever bound two trusting hearts in one."
" Oh, mine is all the trust," she cried, " and if I be deceived, mine will be
all the woe."
284 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" As never woman thus loved and trusted," lie passionately exclaimed ;
" so never woman was so supremely blest, as thou, my soul's beloved, shalt
be!"
With soothing words and tender protestations and impassioned vows, he
sustained her spirits, and beguiled the length of their moonlight journey.
At last they beheld the white walls of the sacred edifice glimmering through
the dark, silver-edged foliage of the trees that embosomed it. The illumi-
nated arches of the lofty windows told that his words were true, and that
the holy father there awaited for the bridegroom and the bride.
" Courage, my beloved," he cried, supporting her steps into the vestibule,
" your sublime confidence shall soon be rewarded. If it wearies, even now,
I will restore you to the friends you have quitted for the stranger's love.
But if you still cling to me with undoubting faith and triumphant affection,
come, and the powers of earth cannot rend us asunder."
Blanche placed her cold hand in his. Throwing his arm around her, he
led her toward the illuminated altar, where, clothed in his white robes, with
the crucifix suspended on his breast, the man of God was standing. Blanche
Bank upon her knees, and bowed her head, till it touched the marble steps of
the altar. At this moment, as if touched by invisible hands, the deep notes
of the organ swelled grandly and solemnly on the ear. They gradually rose
to the full altitude of the lofty dome, when, rolling along the arch, gathering
volume as they rolled, they burst over the altar in a thunder-peal of melody,
then murmured softly away, only to swell again in the same magnificent epi-
thalamium. The illuminated church, the holy priest, the consecrated altar,
and the grand and solemn music, filled the soul of Blanche with devout
enthusiasm. Her confidence in her mysterious bridegroom deepened and
strengthened. He knelt at her side, with her throbbing hand clasped in his.
The last notes of the organ reverberated on the ear, and the priest com-
menced the solemn ceremony. So intense was her agitation, that she did
not even hear the name of the unknown being — that name that was to be
henceforth her own. She did not know when the rite was ended, but con-
tinued with her head, bowed, and her loosened hair sweeping the consecrated
marble.
" And now, my beloved," s$,id the divine voice that had with its first
accent captivated her soul, " the hour is come which releases me from the
vow breathed in the presence of this man of God. Remove the mask, and
behold the features which, whatever form they bear, are beaming with
immortal love for thee."
CAROLINE LEE HEXTZ. 285
Slowlj and tremblinglj Blanche raised her head, and turned toward him,
as he knelt on the lo^ye^ steps of the altar, and bent till his sable locks
"waved against her snowj dress.
And now the moment was arrived to which she had looked forward with
such wild curiosity, with such unutterable hope and dread. Her hand
refused to obey the impulse of her panting heart. It fell almost lifeless on
his shoulder, and a thick mist darkened her sight.
"Fear not, my daughter," said the deep voice of the priest. "Put your
trust in Heaven, and shrink not from the destiny thou hast chosen, whatever
it may be. As faith is the most sublime of Christian virtues, so it is the
most glorious proof of love."
These words issuing from the sacerdotal lips, that had so lately blessed
her as a bride, gave her a momentary strength. Her fmgers passed with
lingering touch through the luxuriant locks that waved over the ribbon
which confined the mask. As she unloosed the knot, and he gradually began
to raise his bending head, before she had caught one glimpse of those mys-
terious features, overcome by the weight of concentrated emotions, she fell
lifeless on his bosom.
When she recovered her senses, she found herself lying quietly on the
carpet of her boudoir, by the side of her overturned harp, whose strings
were yet vibrating from the sudden fall. Elsie was standing over her with
a lamp in her hand, in convulsions of laughter.
" I would not be laughing if you were hurt," she cried, setting down her
lamp and assisting the prostrate beauty, as well as her shaking muscles would
allow, to resume an upright position. " You have had a pleasant nap of it,
leaning against your harp. It tumbled before I could catch you, or you
would not be lying here."
" Oh," cried Blanche, sitting up and rubbing her eyes, "if I had only had
one glimpse of his face!"
DE LARA'S BEIDE.
Ere yet the curtain lifts its veiling fold,
Now" o'er scenes of tragic art unroU'd,
The eye of hope this brilliant ring surveys,
And draws prophetic radiance from the gaze.
The third sad sister of the seraph choir,
Who wake the music of the deep-toned lyre,
286 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
This night, presiding genius of the Stage,
Has searched the hoarded treasures of an age.
Eich in the dearest memories of earth —
In chivalry, devotion, valor, worth —
She comes, with thorns upon her pallid brow,
Though thorns and sorrow lurk beneath their glow.
The passions follow darkly in her train,
Wild as the billows of the storm-swept main- ;
But reason, Nature, vindicate their cause,
And conscience writhes o'er its insulted laws.
Who has not felt, when reeling o'er the verge
Of crimes, to which temptations madly urge,
An antepast of that undying sting —
That quenchless fire, prepared for guilt's dread king;
And shrunk, as if the Lord's avenging wrath
Had placed upbraiding phantoms in their path ?
To paint these agonies, to show the wreck
Of Mind's proud sovereignty when on the neck
Of unthroned reason Passion victor stands.
While pale Remorse in stealth its victim brands !
This is the empire of the heaven-born maid —
May no polluting steps or realms invade.
Never may that celestial fire, whi^jh erst
From Pindus' mount in flames of glory burst,
Descend to gild that scene where vice maintains
Its sorcery o'er the slave within its chains —
Where genius forms unholy league with fame,
And makes itself immortal by its shame.
. Ye sons of Erudition ! classic band !
Eulers of taste ! in this unshackled land —
All that ye can, in candor, truth accord,
To this new candidate of fame award.
Man's own justice may relax its frown.
When woman aims to win the laurel crown.
Till now, the smiles of partial friends have warm'd
The germs of fancy, their fond love disarm'd
Eelenting criticism — veil'd in mist
Each venial error. In the crowded list
CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. ' 287
Of Bards, adventurous champion now she waits,
As stood the fabled Sylph at Eden's gates.
Trembling to know if hers were that bright gifl,
Of power the everlasting bars to lift.
Daughters of loveliness ! we turn to you —
Stars of the arch, fair bending on^lhe view ;
'Tis yours to kindle that propitious beam
Whose visioned radiance gilds the poet's dream.
To you a sister, in the bard, appeals
For all that woman most devoutly feels,
Most dearly prizes — pure spontaneous praise.
Oh ! when some unseen hand these folds shall raise,
May some kind genius o'er the walls preside.
And more than welcome great De Lara's Bride.
THE SNOW FLAKES.
Ye're welcome, ye white and feathery flakes.
That fall like the blossoms the summer wind shakes
From the bending spray — Oh, say, do ye come,
With tidings to me from my far distant home ?
" Our home is above in the depths of the sky,
In the hollow of God's own hand we lie —
We are fair, we are pure, our birth is divine —
Say, what can we know of thee, or of thine ?"
I know that ye dwell in kingdoms of air — •
I know ye are heavenly, pure, and fair ;
But oft have I^seen ye, far travellers, roam,
By the cold blast driven, round my northern home.
" We roam over mountain, and valley, and sea,
We hang our pale wreaths on the leafless tree :
The heralds of wisdom and mercy we go,
And perchance the far home of thy childhood we know.
288 -WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" "We roam, and our fairy track we leave,
"While for nature a winding-sheet we weave —
A cold, white shroud, that shall mantle the gloom,
Till her Maker recalls her to glory and hloom."
Oh, foam of the shoreless ocean above !
I know thou d^Bsendest in mercy and love :
All chill as thou art, yet benign is thy birth,
As the dew that impearls the green bosom of Earth.
And I've thought as I've seen thy tremulous spray,
Soft curling like mist on the branches lay
In bright relief on the dark blue sky.
That thou meltedst in grief when the sun came nigh.
" Say, whose is the harp whose echoing song
Breathes wild on the gale that wafts us along?
The moon, the flowers, the blossoming tree,
"Wake the minstrel's lyre, they are brighter than we."
The flowers shed their fragrance, the moonbeams their light,
Uver scenes never veil'd by your drap'ry of white ;
But the clime where I first saw your downy flakes,
My own native clime is far dearer than aU.
Oh, fair, when ye clothed in their wintry mail,
The elms that o'ershadow my home in the vale.
Like warriors they looked, as they bowed in the storm,
"With the tossing plume and the towering form.
Ye fade, ye melt — I feel the warm breath
Of the redolent South o'er the desolate heath —
But tell me, ye vanishing pearls where ye dwell,
"When the dew-drops of Summer bespangle the dell ?
" "We fade — we melt into crystalline spheres —
"We weep, for we pass through a valley of tears ;
But onward to glory, away to the sky —
In the hollow of God's own hand we lie."
CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 289
A MAKTIAL SONG.
Know ye the place wliere the white walls rise,
Mid tlie waves of ocean gleaming?
Where the guardian ramparts meet the eyes,
And the starry flag is streaming?
Know ye the spot where at evening's close,
And at morning's early breaking,
The music of battle inspiringly flows,
The rock-born echoes waking ?
Oh ! fair is that place, where the sunbeams rest
In their glory on the billows ;
Or the moon on her native ocean's breast.
Her silvery forehead pillows.
And fair are those walls with the banner that floats,
To the waves our triumphs telling ;
And sweet are those clear and warlike notes,
On the ocean breezes swellingt
But fairer still are the glance and smile.
That beamed there a kindly greeting ;
And sweeter the heart-born tones the while,
Our own glad accents meeting.
In the fortress of war, the home of the bold,
The spirit of love is residing ;
And dove-winirs furl, with a downy fold,
Where the eagle in power is presiding.
We stood on the ramparts, and saw the white surge
Roll onward, then hoarsely retreating ;
Or the Indian his bark o'er the blue waters urge,
Some forest descant repeating.
19
290 WOMEN or TEE SOUTH.
When evening in raiments of silver came on,
How calm was the current that bore us ;
Around us, like diamonds, the clear ripples shone.
While the heavens bent glistening o'er us.
But the ray we loved was flashing afar,
In ntful, revolving glory ;
It welcomed us back, like a beacon star,
That watched o'er the battlements hoary.
Oh, when, lonely sentinel, when wilt thou beam
On our path to that gem of the ocean ;
Where life bore the brightness that visits our dream,
And time had of snow-flakes the motion ?
SALLY ROCHESTER EORD.
Tuts writer has a distinctive place among Southern authors,
as a leading light of tlie Baptist denomination, and a subtle and
effective interpreter of its peculiar tenets.
She was born at Rochester Springs, Boyle County, Kentucky,
in 182S. Her father, Col. J. Henry Rochester, is the grand-
nephew of ^fsTathaniel Eochester, who laid out the city of
Rochester, New York. The branch of the family from which
Mrs. Ford descended, emigrated and settled in Kentucky in the
la! ter part of the last century, while the country was yet a com-
parative wilderness.
The Rochesters are not unknown to English history, and
they still confess to a shade of pride as they trace their lineage
and recount their ancestry. This feeling, doubtless, has had its
stimulating influence in developing the gifts, and bringing into
distinction the name of our author.
She was only in her fourth year, and the eldest of three
daughters, wlien she was deprived by death of a mother's care.
The loss, however, was providentially supplied by the judicious
supervision of her maternal grandmother, a woman of great
mental and physical vigor, wlio devoted herself to her grand-
children with true motherly interest. Accustomed herself to
out-door exercise, the management of a farm and the superin-
tendence of a large family, and being withal a woman of higlily
religious character, she appreciated and enforced the kind of
training which is now apparent in the strong characteristics of
our writer.
292 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH,
Mrs. Ford, with lier sister Cassandra, was educated at
" Georgetown Female Seminary," Kentnckj, an institution,
under the conduct of Prof. J. E. Famam, which has done much
for the intellectual and religious culture of that region. From
the first she gave evidence of talent, and, in 184:7, graduated
with the highest honors of her class.
In the spring of 184:8, she made a public profession of the
Christian religion, and was baptized hj the Itev. D. II. Camp-
bell, President of Georgetown College, Kentucky, who verj
cordially provides these data.
Her advantages for acquiring biblical knowledge were
rather unusual. She was a lover of books and a close student.
Her uncle. Rev. J. P. Pitts, occupied an adjacent farm, and
gave her free access to his library and counsel. She cultivated
the acquaintance of clergymen, especially those of her own
denomination, and took an intelligent and deep interest in the
study of the distinguishing principles of their theolagy. In this
way she laid the foundation of the skill with which she has
since defended the faith of her peoj)le.
In March, 1855, she married the Pev. S. H. Ford, of Louis-
ville, Ivy. He was at that time pastor of the East Baptist
church in that city, and connected with the denominational
press of the State. Shortly after their marriage, he became sole
proprietor of the " Christian Repository," a religious monthly,
which he has since conducted with much success.
At this point commenced Mrs. Ford's career as a writer.
She contributed short articles to the " Repository " until she
acquired ease and confidence, then, encouraged by her husband,
began the serial of " Grace Truman," which was brought out
in the monthly numbers of that magazine. Tliis story at once
attracted the attention of the public. The " Repository," went
up rapidly, and Mrs. Ford's reputation as a denominational
writer was gradually established.
SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. . 293
In 1857, this work was published by Sheldon & Co., of ISTew
York, and in a short time reached a sale of thirty thousand
copies. As a lucid and forcible presentation of distinctive
tenets, it has, and must ever hold, an important place in reli-
gions literature.
During the present year, Mrs. Ford has given to the world
another book, entitled *' Mary Bunyan." In this volume she
traces, with graphic power, the persecution and intolerance by
which the author of " Pilgrim's Progress " was prepared for his
immortal work. It carries in itself all the elements of success,
and cannot fail to achieve it.
Besides these labors, Mrs. Ford shares largely in the edito-
rial charge of the " Bepository," and is, in every respect, her
husband's faithful coadjutor. Combining, also, the best qua-
Kties of the social, domestic, and Christian woman, she esta-
blishes her " right," by proving her abilty, to occupy a wide and
comprehensive ^' sphere."
MY FATHER'S WILL.
I have lately f'ome into the possession of an inheritance. It was left me
by my father in his will. My father is in a far distant country. I am every
day hastening to this glorious home where my father is. I say glorions
home ; and so it is. I have not seen it yet, hut my father has said it, and I
believe. The walls are of precious stones, and the gates thereof are of pearl,
and the streets of pure gold. Sometimes, in thinking of this home, I grow
almost impatient, because I am so long a sojourner here. But I must wait
patiently for my father to send for me. He doeth all things well. When all
things are ready — when the glorious mansion which he has gone to prepare
for me is complete, then he will send for me. I shall then go to be with him
forever.
I have never seen my father ; but I know he is my father. I know it
from several reasons. And the bestowal of this last estate, into the posses-
sion of which I have so recently entered, is unmistakable evidence of it. If
294 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
r had doubted it before, I could not now. To do so would be to doubt my
father's word, and my father never lies. With him there is no variableness
nor shadow of turning. All of his words are " Yea and Amen."
I have often wondered why my father left such an estate as this to his
children — have tried again and again to solve this question. And after all
my endeavors I can only conclude, " Even so. Father, for thus it seemeth
good in thy sight." My father, no doubt, knows that it is necessary for his
children that they have this inheritance, and, therefore, before he left this
exile world, he sealed it up as a part of his will and testament to them. It
is needful for their good here, and for a full preparation for entering upon
that inheritance which is incorruptible, undefiled, and fadeth not away. My
father has sufficient reasons for all he does. He is infinite in justice, wisdom,
and love.
Before my father departed to go into the far country where he now is, he
willed to me, his child, several estates, various in character and value ; and
the parchments on which these last testaments were written were sealed up
with diiferent-colored seals, each seal indicative of the character of the estate
the parchment bestowed. I have examined each roll and seal closely, and I
find they all bear the impress of my father's seal of state. I cannot be mis-
taken about this. My father is too wise and just to leave his children in the
least uncertainty with regard to anything he would have them know.
My father has not only left these various inheritances, but he has also
wisely ordered the times at which I shall enter into their possession. But
these times, in his wisdom and love, he has kept hidden from my
view.
Many of the parchment-rolls, with their respective-colored seals, have
been opened, and I have immediately entered upon the possession of the
estates they have conferred on me. And they have been pleasant inheri-
tances— goodly lands, flowing with milk and honey. No nectar, no ambrosia
'could equal the glorious repasts which I have enjoyed from my father's
liberal hand. My father has been very kind to me. I have often thought he
favored me above most of his children. True, my possessions have not been
large, compared with the standard of this world, but then there has always
been such glorious sunshine on my estates — such sweet music ever sounding
in my ears, and such glad, happy faces always around me, my cup of joy
has been full. I have tried to feel very thankful for all these blessed gifts,
and whil-e I was in the enjoyment of them, I thought I was grateful. Alas !
ftlasi what gratitude. jj
SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 295
In the archives of my father's house, where his wills of his children are
kept, I have often seen one marked for me, and sealed with a black seal. It
bore his signet, therefore I could not but know it was genuine. As I have
said, I have often seen it among the deeds of other estates. I never liked to
look at it, or think upon it, and somehow I always hoped that perhaps my
father would never have it opened. I knew the title was to an estate in the
valley of Baca. I knew, too, this valley of Baca was a destitute region, a
land of bitterness and droucht. I had read of it, and I had seen some of my
father's children who had been on their estates in this valley.
I often wondered if my fother would ever bid me go and dwell there. I
knew he was all love, and as he had always been so lavish in his blessings to
me, I have concluded he intended to spare me this great trial. Blind I was,
and slow of heart to believe. But whenever the fear came over me, I turned
shudderingly from the view ; and often I have prayed, " If it be possible,
Father, let this cup pass from me."
Sometimes I have feared this black seal would be broken, and then I have
been filled with dreadful apprehension. Then I shuddered, and drew back
from the prospect. My faith grew faint, my heart chill, and I was almost
ready to doubt all good. But knowing that my father, though unseen by
me, could hear my petition, I have gone away alone, and besought my father
to spare me this trial. Sometimes, again, when I have been in the happy
possession of my goodly heritage, I have felt that my father was too merci^
ful ever to command me or his agents to break that black-seal roll. I
knew he was a kind father, and would not willingly afflict me. And I
could see no reason why I should ever dwell in the valley of Baca. "Was J
not my father's obedient child?
Thus flattering myself, I had ceased to dread the opening of the black
seal parchment roll. Indeed, I had almost forgotten that it was among
my father's testaments to me.
But my father is never mistaken with regard to the good of his chil-
dren. He knows aU things — sees the end from the beginning. He well
knew, long before I was a pilgrim, what would be needful for me in
this country where I now sojourn ; therefore he left this dreaded will.
And he knew, too, just when it was best for me it should be opened,
and long ago he gave his agent direction concerning it. But I did not
know it. I had not watched and prayed as my father had commanded,
else might I have known more of his will concerning me. And then I
should not have been so distressed when this seal was broken.
296 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
I have been dwelling for some months in this valley of Baca — ^this
land of bitterness.
But I must tell you something of my removal thither. I was in pos-
session of the last estate my father, as yet, had ever bestowed upon me.
I was very, very happy. And thought, too, that I was accomplishing his
wiU according to his written directions. I thought I was endeavoring
with all my power to carry out his command, endeavoring to labor in.
his vineyard. And I now feel this sore, trial is anticipative rather than
retrospective, to prepare me for what is to come, rather than to chastise
me for what is past. I feel so, not because I am good, but because my
father is good.
One d.ty, in the very midst of my happiness, and when I was least
expecting such a thing, there came suddenly to me a messenger to tell me
that I must leave my glorious possessions, and take up my abode in the valley
of Baca.
"It cannot be," said I, in consternation, for fearful forebodings seized my
very soul. "Are you sure your message is true? Are you not mis-
taken?"
"Not mistaken," he replied, "it is the will of your father."
"The will of my fother !" I exclaimed, full of apprehension. (The will
of my father. I could not rebel against it.) " But how am I to know that
you tell me is true ?"
" Here," said he, handing me the parchment, with its horrid black seal.
" Here, read for yourself."
I took it. The seal was broken. I opened it and read: " Yea^ andall
they who will live godly in G'irist Jenm^ skull »<ife • pe'secution.''''
I looked at it closely. Tliere was no mistake. It was for me. I read
a little farther on. "My grace shall be sufficient for thee." "It is
enough," I said, "I'll ask no more," and immediately I removed to the
valley of Baca, where I now dwell.
As you may well s'ippose, wlien I first removed thither, I was almost in
despair. It seemed to me that I could not live. I was overwhelmed by sor-
row. There was no light, but hlackness, ilickness, everywhere. Oh, I can-
not tell you how dark — ^how deeply dark this blackness was ! Words are
too poor to describe it. I felt that my father had utterly forsaken me. I
felt that all my father's children had forsaken me. Like my brother Job of
old, I exclaimed, " The thing which I greatly feared has come upon me, and
that which I was afraid of, is corae unto me.' And with David, " My God,
SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 297
mj God, why hast thou forsaken me ? — why art thou so far from helping
me?"
I knew not whither to look. My heart was hroken with grief. My head
was bowed to the earth. All the kind words of my father, all his former
blessings, all his sure words of promise — were but bitterness to me. They
were sharp arrows that pierced my soul.
The valley of Baca T found a desert-place ; no pools nor wells of water,
and I was parched with thirst. Neither date nor fig-tree, and I was starv-
ing with hunger. I could only think, and suffer. Remembrances of the
pleasant lands from which I had come, only served to render the desolation
and darkness of the valley the more horrible. I tried to reason with myself.
I said, " This is for my good, else my father would not have ordered it. I
need to be won from this world. I need to be purified from the dross of
this wicked nature. My father will grant me deliverance by and by. I must
bear it all patiently."
"While I soliloquized thus, two hideous figures, with dark, dread counte-
nances, came and stood beside me, and offered to be my companions as long
as I should dwell in this horrid place. They were Doubt and Despair. I
shrunk back from their de;noa presence. They laughed and mocked at my
anguish. Doubt, with fiendish delight, whispered iu my ear, "Only through
the swelling Jordan, which lies just beyond the precincts of this valle}',
shall you reach your father's bosom." Then Despair took up the frightful
threatening : " You'll never reach there," he shouted with malicicms joy.
"This is your only inheritance. Your father has forgotten you. He no
longer regards your cries and tears." And he grinned a horrid, ghastly grin,
as I sunk beneath the hopeless sentence.
Oh, my father's children, never, never shall I forget tliis dark and trying
hour. If you have never been thus visited, you cannot appreciate what I
say, though it were written in words of living light. And if you have,
then I need not tell you. You know it all. Such seasons are never for-
gotten.
After a time these dreadful ministers left me to myself. I spared their
companionship, for I felt that they were not sent by my father. Tlien there
came a ray of light, faint and feoble at first, but gradually it served to light
me on my way to this dark valley. I knew it was from my father, and I
rejoiced that he had not forgotten me in my low estate. I remembered
all his previous promises, and that he had said they were all " yea and amen."
And when I remembered, too, that this heavy affiictiun had been appointed
298 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
me, and that I had been forewarned of it, I felt to reproach myself for raj
want of confidence in my father's goodness.
When I had somewhat come to myself, and began clearly to realize my
situation (for heretofore I was as one benumbed with grief), I gave myself
to prayer and supplication. I knew my father's ear was ever open to my
cry, though Despair, for a season, had made me believe otherwise — that his
heart was beating with love and compassion for me, and that for my good,
but not willingly, had he afflicted me.
I asked my father for strength ; I asked him for guidance ; I asked him
that his grace might perfect me through suifering. And oftentimes, when
this valley has been darkest, and when I have been most closely beset by my
enemies, have I been made to rejoice in my afflictions, knowing that they
were working out for me a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.
I have had seasons of darkest trial since I have entered upon this possession.
But then I have had seasons of sweet comfort, too, for I have felt persuaded
that "neither death, nor life, nor powers, nor principalities, nor things pre-
sent, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth," shall ever be able to sepa-
rate me from the love of my father. All things are his, and he is mine.
I have oftentimes thirsted in this place, but of late this valley of Baca
hath become a well ; the rain, also, filleth the pools. And I sometimes now
hear my father's cheering voice, bidding me faint not. And day by day I am
pressing on to that glorious country that eye hath never seen.
It may be that I am to abide here until I am called up to my inheritance
above. If it be my father's will, I would cheerfully acquiesce. It cannot be
a great while before I shall be called to my father's house. Therefore, let
me not be faint. A glorious home awaits me, and when I shall get there, all
my present sorrows shaU be swallowed up in ecstatic bliss. Darkness shall
be exchanged for light; tears for joy; trial and suffering for bliss which
shall never end. I shall be forever with my father, and he shall wipe all
tears from my eyes.
MRS. GRAY.
Mrs. Gray was a kind-hearted, energetic woman, and a model house-
keeper. Looking well to the success of her household, and everything from
garret — yes, garret, for theirs was an old-fashioned country-house, which
boasted of a garret, not an attic — to cellar, bore indisputable marks of neat-
SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 299
ness and good order ; not that straight-laced primness which impresses even
the most fastidious with a feeling of un comfortableness and fear; "What a
pity it is that some housekeepers will torment themselves to death to make
everybody and everything about them unpleasant ! Always brushing, dust-
ing, polishing, and hopelessly miserable whenever a truant scrap from a
neighbor's scissors finds its way to the carpet, until it is picked up and
unmistakably committed to the flames.
The children of such a household are filled with old-maidish ways before
they reach their teens ; prim, spiritless creatures, destitute of all naturalness,
and fit only to talk about " order and proprieties." I pity the mother of
such walking systems; my heart aches for the children of such proper
mothers. Rather let me have the ringing laugh and bounding feet, though
that laugh may reach a note above the octave of propriety, and the bounding
feet bring home soiled stockings and untidy shoes. For mercy's sake, let
children be children as long as they will. Then shall we see more men and
women, and fewer young ladies of fashion, and dandies of the first water;
more heart and sense, and less puling sentimentality, and aping the would-
be-great ; then would there be a pure health current of common sense, moral-
ity, and religion, running through the whole frame-work of society, giving
to it vigorous life and progress.
THE EETREAT.
It was a happy home, this little whitewashed cottage that Grace had
named the " Retreat." Let us look at it a moment, about four weeks after
it had become the habitation of Grace.
Pleasantly situated on an eminence, with beautiful grounds around, it
stood just without the village, of which it commanded a fine view. The
road ran in sight, but not near enough to make it a public place ; a footpath
spanned the meadow that intervened between it and Mount Airy, Avhich
could be seen from the south window of Grace's room. Behind the house,
from the back of the garden, the fields, now in a state of high cultivation,
trended away to the background of woodland which skirted the horizon. A
large beech-tree, which i;i summer time threw its shade half over the little
front yard, stood to the riglit as you approached the latticed porch, which
had recently been added. The few rose-bushes, and cedars, standing equi-
distant from each other, along the front fence, had been robbed of all su])er-
300 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
fluous growth. And tlie lilac, which stood to the left, as if in mimic oppo-
sition to the beech, had also undergone the trimming process, and looked so
fresh and green as almost to give promise of a second flowering. Newly-
spaded flower-beds, with annual fall flowers just breaking the mold with
their tender heads, bordered the pavement. The garden, too, had been
ploughed, and planted in such things as would mature before the coming of
the frost. Everything, within and without, gave evidence of neatness and
thrift, for Grace, though a very young housekeeper, was a very good one ;
and Aunt Peggy found that her province was to suggest, rather than to direct.
The sun threw a glorious radiance over meadow and fields, stole in
through the open window and past the snowy muslin curtain, falling in a
quiver of golden arrows at the feet of Grace, as she sat in her sewing-chair
finishing a piece of floss-work. Her husband, just returned from the busi-
ness of the day, for he yet overlooked his father's farm, was resting on the
lounge at her side, telling her of the occurrences of the day, to which .eie
was listening with deep interest. Tiie tea-table, with its stainless cloth and
glistening furniture, stood in the centre of the room. To the right of Grace
was her work-stand, on which rested a vase of roses and cedar, to which had
been added the field-flowers brought her by her husband ; and the weekly
journal, which it was his habit to read aloud after the day's business was
finished, lay by the side of the flower-vase. In the corner was a table of
books and magazines, which were Grace's companions when her husband
was away. Jane was in the kitchen getting sui)per ; and old Aunt Peggy,,
having seen that all was right in that department, had gone to gather up the
chickens and put them in their respective coops before it was dark, for there
was a mink somewhere in the neighborhood, and she could not trust them in
the hen-house.
Surely into this little Eden no serpent will ever enter ; over this love-lit
dwelling no cloud will ever gather !
Grace had many pleasant visitors j:o enliven the hours of her husband's
absence; for her gentleness and sincerity had won for her numerous friends
in the village and country. It was a delightful walk to the "Petreat," and
it was a charming place at which to spend an hour or two when one was
there. Mrs. Holmes and Fannie often came to pass the day or evening, and
their kindness and love to her in some measure made amends for old Mr.
Holmes's ill-treatment. He rarely ever called, and when he did, it was to
see his son on business. His manner toward Grace continued cold and for-
bidding.
SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 301
Could it be expected of liim to come down from the Leights of his dig-
nity when she persisted in her advocacy of such erroneous opinions ? Oh,
no ! Not one jot or tittle would he yield. " He would show her what it
was to hold out against his desire. Such obstinacy and narrow-mindedness
deserved to be punished with the utmost severity. How dared she oppose
the teachings of his church, to withstand the opinions of the learned and
wise? Was such presumption ever known before ? But he would bring her
to — yes, that he would ! She must be made to feel the extent of her imperti-
nence : it might take some time to accomplish it, for she was pretty stiff-
necked ; but it should be done ; no daughter-in-law of his should be a
Baptist : he would not stand the disgrace." Thus he reasoned with himself,
and thus he acted.
Grace was pierced to the heart by his treatment, for she fully understood
his motives ; but she remembered the promise, " I am with you always,''
and was strengthened to bear the burden.
Mr. Lewis often came to sit with them till after tea. He loved the quiet
and home-like appearance of the little whitewashed cottage. It was usual
for him, on such occasions, to report his progress in the study of the bap-
tismal question, and to engage in conversation with Grace on that subject.
At such times Mr. Holmes proved an attentive listener ; laying on the lounge,
he would give earnest heed to what was being said, often asking questions,
or making comments. It was evident he was interested, and was determined
to avail himself of Mr. Lewis' study without much exertion to himself. On
one occasion, after having give-n very close attention to his cousin's proof in
favor of believer's baptism, he rose, and approaching him, said, in quite an
earnest manner :
" I believe, Ed, that you and Grace will make a Baptist of me yet."
Then, after a pause, he added: "But what is the use for me to change?
You have no church here, if I should be converted to your views, for me to
join "
"Father Miller has promised to preach for us in "Weston next fall, yon
know, Mr. Holmes," said Grace, catching at the faintest shadow of promise
of change in his views, " and you will then have an opportunity to show U3
whether our arguments have convinced you or not," and the young wife
regarded her husband with an expression half playful, half earnest.
" I shall give no promises for the future, for fear I shall not perform
them ; we will wait until Father Miller shall come, and then see."
302 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
AUNT PEGGY A LOGICIAN.
" De bud is very Litter to you, Miss Gracey, I know it is, chile, "but de
flower, wljen it comes, will be mity sweet. De Lord never forsakes Ms
chil'ren, blessed be his name."
"But, Aunt Peggy, suppose I am mistaken in my belief of what is my
duty, you know God will never bless me in this course ; I cannot expect it.
If I should act differently, it might be the means of saving my husband ; aU
of his friends think so ; and oh, Aunt Peggy, to accomplish this I would make
any sacrifice — would do anything that is right." And the weeping wife
buried her face in lier hands, and sobbed aloud. " And you know, Aunt
Peggy," she added, after the outburst of her deep grief had somewhat sub-
sided, " that Baptists look upon Presbyterians as good Christian people, and
the children of God, and agree with them on all the essential points of doc-
trine. Then why can't I join with them in celebrating an ordinance which
he has commanded all of his followers to observe? How could there be any
wrong in my doing this. Aunt Peggy ?"
" Well, now. Miss Gracey, I will tell you how T looks upon it. It 'pears
to me like dis : I went down to de store last week to buy dat new calico
gown you was a making dis mornin', and arter de calico was rolled up, I
untied de corner of my handkercher an' gin Massa Ray, Miss Fannie's beau,
dare, a dollar ; he looked at it, and handed it back to me. I was took by •
surprise, I tells you, and said, ' Massa Ray, ain't dat good silver ?' ' Yes,
Aunt Peggy,' said he, 'it is good silver.' 'What do you mean, den?' says
I ; ' I knows it is good, and no counterfeiter, for I's rung it more'n a
dozen times, and it's jes as clar as a bell ; why don't you take it, Massa
Ray?' 'It's good silver. Aunt Peggy, excellent stuff;' said he, a kind a
laughing. ' Well, I wish you would tell me what you mean,' says I,
growin' more an' more puzzled ; ' if it is gennywine, wliat is de reason
you don't keep it? don't you take such money?' 'Yes, Aunt Peggy, just
as much of it as I can get. I wish I could have thousands of it every
day.' 'Well, why don't you take it den?' 'Well,' said he, bustin' out
into de biggest laugh you ever heerd, 'I don't take it. Aunt Pegg}', just
because it ain't a dollar, it wants five cents of it ; it's only a five franc
piece.' Now, Miss Gracey, it's jes so wid Presbyterians ; dey is mity good
silver, an' we Baptists is willin' to take dem for jes what dey is worth ;
but dey ain't a dollar, I tell you! dey wants de five cents."
SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 303
Grace and Fannie were much impressed with the old servant's apt
illustration. For a moment neither of them made any reply. At length,
as if a new thought had struck her, Fannie said :
" But Aunt Peggy, if Mr. Ray had chosen, he coald have taken your
five franc piece, couldn't he ?"
The old woman saw the point in her question, and answered
quickly.
" Ko, no. Miss Fannie, it is not lef ' to Massa Ray to do as he pleases
in dis matter. Mr. Matthews 'spects him to mind what he says ; an' it
is jes so wid us ; we mus' follow de Master's command ; we doesn't dar'
to change it. If he had lef us to do as we pleased, we might commune
wid all Christian people ; but you know he told all dat partakes of de
emblems of his broken body and spilt hlooA first to he hapfized, an' dis is de
reason why we Baptists can never break bread wid dose dat has only been
sprinkled. Don't you see dis, Miss Gracey ?"
THE BAPTISM.
It was a beautiful spot, the one selected for the baptism. The creek,
having passed over a dam a few yards above, spread out, at this point, in a
smooth, tranquil sheet, whose crystal waters, like a mirror, sent back from
its unruffled surface the glorious light of heaven. On the further side from
the village, there stretched back, from the banks of the stream, a little
meadow, now clad in its garment of russet and green, while all along the
edge of the water there stood gigantic old sycamores, whose leafless branches
still bent caressingly over the child of their bosom, though they could no
longer give her protection from the noon-day sun. Their infancy had looked
on a race long since gone ! their age was now to witness, for the first time,
the celebration of a simple rite, which had its origin in the far-off wilder-
ness of Judea, and which had beeen preserved by the faithful followers of
their Master, through the fall of nations and the decay of empires, through
trials, and persecution, and blood. Surely not one jot or tittle shall pass
away till all be fulfilled.
On the side next the village, there was a gradual descent to within a few
yards of the edge of the water, where the bank extended itself into a smooth,
level plat, from the dam above to the little foot-bridge a few hundred yards
below. Nature seemed to have designed that spot for the administration of
304 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
the most beautiful and solemn ordinance of the word of God, so admirably
■was it adapted to the purpose.
The day, too, was a lovely one. Earth, air, and sky, all conspired to
throw an. additional charm around the impending rite. The sun looked
down from the blue heavens above upon the quiet scene below, with a smile
of glorious effulgence ; the air wearing that peculiar softness of November,
tempered, while it diffused his brightness and his glory. Earth seemed
wrapped in holy repose, such as we imagine enshrouded Eden during the
sabbath of sinless rest, era the taste of the forbidden fruit "brought death
and all our woe."
" And will you not go to see me baptized, father?" asked Fannie, tremu-
lously, of the old man, as he sat in the corner, with downcast eyes, and that
dark, dreadful frown crowning his brow. She was all ready to step into the
carriage.
He looked at her a moment, as if surprised at her question.
"Go to see you baptized, Fannie! Xo, that I won't. I can see no
daughter of mine dipped !"
She leaned over him and kissed his darkened brow, while the silent tears
coursed each other down her sorrowful cheeks.
"For thee, my Saviour, for thee!" she exclaimed to herself, as, with
breaking heart, she turned away. Her mother gently took her hand, and led
her to the carriage, which stood ready at the door. Mr. Lewis was awaiting
them. He gazed on his cousin with an expression of the deepest sympathy,
and whispering in her ear, "Fear not, Fannie, he will be with you," handed
her into the carriage, and seating himself by her side, they drove to the
water.
The minister, with Mr. Holmes and Grace, Annie and her brother,
together with most of the little band, stood on the brow of the declivity,
awaiting them. Mr. Holmes' countenance beamed with joy and love. His
heart was filled with that confidence and hope which lift the soul above the
present life, and give to it visions of the unseen glory. His faith was "the
substance of things hoped for," the sure evidence of things not seen.
As the little company wended their way down the slope, they sung that
stirring song •
" In all my Lord's appointed ways
My journey I'll pursue ;
Hinder me not, ye much-loved sainta,
For I must go with you.
SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 305
" Through duty, and through trials, too,
111 go at his command;
Binder me not, for I am bound,
For my Immanuers land.
" And when my Saviour calls me home,
Still this my cry shall be :
'•Hinder me not, come welcome death,
I'll gladly go with thee.' "
The effect upon the audience was magical. It was hushed to the pro-
foundest silence. Those who had come from motives of curiosity were
melted to tears ; those who had come to laugh and jeer, were seized, as if
lamler conviction for sin ; a feeling of awe pervaded the whole assembly.
The Spirit of God was in tlieir midst, and they could not, they wished not
to deride and mock. Old and young ; men in the noontide of strength and
vigor, indifferent and unmoved about their soul's salvation ; young men in
life's spring-time, regardless of any duty to God ; matrons and maidens, all
were overcome by the impressiveness of the solemn scene ; t^nd tears found
their way to eyes that seldom wept.
Still the little band moved on with slow and solemn step ; still their notes
of praise rung out on the hushed air.
Fannie leaned upon the arm of Mr. Lewis. Her heart was sad, bowed
even nigh to breaking, for on it rested the weiglit of her father's sore dis-
pleasure. Mr. Lewis, whose soul was fixed upon the promises of Jehovah,
who felt all the comfort, all the bliss of faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, and
all the happiness of entire obedience to his commands — whose every feature
bespoke the peace and joy of "believing,'^ endeavored to reassure her as
they passed on ; but " a wounded spirit who can bear?"
Her soul was racked beneath the conflict of contending emotions ; she
felt that she was giving up all earthly happiness. She was acting in direct
opposition to her father's expressed will ; and that father, bowed down by
the grief of her disobedience, had positively refused to see her baptized.
She was severing herself from all her early associations. Those she had
known from her childhood days, whose hearts had treasured her with a sis-
ter's love, would now turn from her cold and indifferent ; and there was one
far dearer to her than all other friends beside ; one to whom she had given
her highest, holiest, earthly love, and she was now about to meet the d
20
S06 Vv^OMEN OF THE SOUTH.
of separation from him — from all she loved. She wondered if he would be
there, or would he stay away and thus manifest his disapprobation of her
course. She prayed, oh so fervently, that God would direct his steps thither,
and there convince him, by his own mighty power, of the obligation that
yet rested upon him as a follower of the blessed Redeemer. " Grant me
this, 0 my Father ! I ask no more ; lead him in the paths of all righteous-
ness for thy name's sake."
She leaned heavily on the arm of her cousin for support. She was almost
ready to sink beneath the burden of her sorrows. Her mother followed
behind her; her deep sobbings fell upon her ear during the intervals between
the words of the song, and pierced her bosom to its deepest depths.
Mrs. Holmes clung to her daughter with that love which only a mother's
heart can feel imder such trying circumstances. She did not disapprove the
act her daughter was about to perform ; she thought only of the painful,
fearful consequences to her affectionate nature. How dark, oh how very
dark did the future appear as it arrayed itself before her! She fully com-
prehended her daughter's situation ; she knew what must be the effects of
blighted hope on a heart so young, so pure, so trusting ; and she knew, too,
that to all this sorrow would be added that of her father's unmitigated dis-
approbation. If that father had but come to see his daughter baptized, it
would have been some consolation ; but he would not. The mother's heart,
as well as the daughter's, was well-nigh breaking. Her faith was dimmed to
darkness ; she saw the picture in its deepest shadow, and could not realize
that light could ever gild its blackness.
As they approached the stream, the crowd parted on either side, and
they passed through to the water's edge. As the last words of the song
died away, there was a stillness as of the grave. Lifting his trembling
hands on high, the aged man offered up a short, beseeching prayer to God
for his blessing on what was now to be done in his name, that grace might
be given to those Avho were there to testify to the W(/rl 1 their love to Christ
and tlieir willingness to follow him in all of his commands ; to grant to them
that " perfect love which casteth out all fear."
And with his went up from the stricken heart at liis side, earnest suppli-
cation, "Be with me, O my God, be with me ! Give me strength to do thy
will! O take not thy presence from me in this my hour of need! I do it
all for thee — in obedience to tliy command ! I leave father and mother, kin-
dred and friends, all — all to follow thee! O leave me not. nor forsake mel
still my strength and helper be ! Support me ! O support me!"
SALLY ROCHESTER FORD. 307
And there came a voice a? if from heaven, saying : "Fear not; lo ! I am
with you, follow me. I will be thy guide and support ; I bled that tTwu
mightst live ; I poured out my soul in death for tli>j redemption. Canst thou
not trust me ? Look up, look up, and see me on the cross bleeding, dying,
that thou mightst be saved. Have I not said, every one that hath forsaken
houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or
lands, for my name's sake, shall recfive a hundredfold, and shall inherit ever-
lasting life. I have kept thee thus far, and can I not preserve thee to the
end ?"
She eoull trust ; she did trust ! And as the prayer closed, she threw aside
her veil, and those around her saw her face beaming, as it had been the face
of an angel. All fear, all doubt was gone. " She knew in whom she had
trusted."
Giving her bonnet to Annie Gray, "who stood by her side, she took the
arm of her brother, and followed the minister and Mr. Lewis into the water.
As she stood, her hair thrown back from her calm brow, and her hands
folded on her peaceful bosom, Avhile a smile of ineffable sweetness and truth
lighted up her placid face, she presented a picture of unearthly loveliness.
And never, in coming time, did that vision pass from the remembrance of
those that saw her. There was one beholder who perceived it in all its
intensity and power; it had burned itself in upon his heart in ever-enduring
characters, and often in after years did he revert to it with feelings akin to
adoration.
On a slight eminence, and a little way above the stream, and apart from
the crowd, there stood a man, his form enveloped in a cloak, and his hat
shading his face. Ko one observed, him, for all eyes were directed to the
group in the water. Cut there lie stood alone^ with folded arms and down-
cast look, while the big tears followed each other down his sorrowful
cheeks.
"There are three that bear record in heaven, the Father, the "VTord, and
the Holy Ghost, and these three are one. And there are three that bear
witness on earth, the Spirit, and the water, and the blood, and these three
agree in one.
"And in obedience to the command of my Lord and Saviour, and after
his example, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the
Holy Ghost. Amen."
A moment, and Mr. Lewis arose from the liquid grave, to walk in
newness of life.
SOS WOMElf OF THE SOUTH.
Fannie stood witli closed eyes, -vvliile her brother submitted to the ordi-
nance which publicly testified his death to sin, and his resurrection to a life
of faith and holiness. Iler heart was communing with her Saviour, she was
tasting of that bliss which the soul feels, when God from off the mercy-seat
reveals himself to man.
Her lips moved, but no sound was heard. "When it came to her turn to
be " buried with Christ in baptism," she cast an earnest searching glance
upon the crowd ; then closing her eyes, she was " planted in the likeness of
the Saviour's death," that she might "be also in the likeness of his resur-
rection."
As she arose, she said, so as to be heard by all near, " I thank thee, O my
God, that thou hast given me strength to do thy will ; praise the Loi'd, O my
soul, and all that is within me bless his holy name !"
As she reached the bank she was caught in the arms of her mother, who,
with tears of joy, pressed her to her heart. " Bless de Lord ! bless de Lord !"
was heard above the voice of the surrounding weeping, and old Aunt Peggy
was seen making her way to where the group stood, exclaiming as she went,
" Bless de Lord ! bless de Lord!" She shook the hand of each, while her
happy old face was bathed in tears, and her soul too full of joy for aught save
praise to God for his great mercy. And as she passed through the crowd,
shaking the hand of all she met, her overflowing heart gushed forth in thanks-
giving and love.
SUSAN ARCHER TAULET.
Had Miss Tallej been born under the sliadow of tbe Boston
State House, her " Ennerslie," "Con Elgin," "Lac j of Lodee,"
and poems of a similar stamp, would have made her a conspi-
cuous spoke in the wheel within wheel — the orbit cf the literary-
elect — around that " hub of the universe." Her Muse has many
points in sympathy with that of Longfellow, and some of her
poems are, in the best sense, Tennysonian ; yet she is in no
respect an imitator. She does not belong to the school of
aspirants who afiect the irregularities and ambiguities of
Tennyson ; but she has quaffed with him from the same dim
shadowy outlets of Hippocrene, and with qualities of mind some-
what akin, though undeveloped and unequal, " bodies forth "
her ideals in cadences of her own.
Miss Talley is descended, on the paternal side, from a
Huguenot refugee, who settled on an estate in Hanover County,
Virginia, about the same time with the Fontaine family, whose
memoirs we have in " A Tale of the Huguenots." In this old
homestead, still in the jiossession of the family, our poet was
born, and here she passed the first eight years of her childhood.
Her father, a gentleman of fine tone and talents, gave early
promise of eminence in his profession of the law ; unfortunately,
however, a constitutional diffidence which in a measure unfitted
him for public speaking, together with a sensitiveness entirely
opposed to the harsh experiences of his office, induced him to
resign the practice of his profession. To those who are fond of
310 "WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
tracing tho possession of genius to hereditary induction, it may
be interesting to observe how, in this instance, the mental
endowments and keen sensibilities of the father, are repeated in
the daughter, and, as it were, heightened into the poetical
temperament.
Among the traits earliest developed in Miss Talley, were
extreme fearlessness and love of liberty. Before she was five
years of age, she delighted in wandering about the estate, alone
or accompanied by her huge Newfoundland dog, Trim, explor-
ing lonely woods, pathless meadows, and gloomy hollows, where
other children could not be induced to venture. She had Trim's
own fondness for the water, and wuen sought, after long liours
of absence, was generally found wading in a stream in a wild
frolic with the dog, or sitting quietly on the bank, watching the
flow of the waves.
It is said that she was never known to betray a sign of fear ;
and that at this age, in her visits to the neighbors, she would
unhesitatingly face and subdue by her caresses the fiercest dogs,
which even grown persons dared not approach. A singular
power of will and magnetism, like that ascribed to the author
of " Wuthering Heights," seems to have possessed her. She rode
with a graceful, fearless abandon, and loved nothing better than
to float away by herself in a frail boat. She was the frequent
companion of her father and grandfather in their walks, rides,
and hunting and fishing excursions ; yet, with all these
influences, she was ever a gentle child, and remarkable for
extreme sensibility and refinement. She delighted in all sights
and sounds of beauty ; and would ait for hours watching the
sky in storm and sunshine, or listening to the wind among the
trees — the plashing of a waterfall, or the cry of a whip-poor-
will. Tliis life familiarized her with all the voices of nature.
A sound once heard she never forgot, but could, years after,
imitate Avith surprising exactnesss. " I thus," she says.
SUSAN ARCHER TALLET. 311
"retain a rich store of remembrances, so vivid, that tliej
seem ever in the present,"
"When she was eight years of age, her father removed to
Richmond, and she then entered school. The change from
unrestrained country life to the confinement of the city, and tlie
irksome discipline of school, seemed a real affliction to the
child. Then, too, her fine sensibilities were, for the first time,
brought into contact with natures of a coarser grain, and the
rudeness, selfishness, and tyranny which she encountered, jarred
upon her painfully. To her teachers, with whom she was ever
a favorite, she became warmly attached, but she shrank from
association with her schoolmates, and though of a lively dispo-
sition, could never be induced to join in their sports.
T\Tien in her eleventh year, she was released from this
school thralldom, by an unexpected dispensation. It had been
remarked that for some days she had appeared singularly
absent and inattentive when spoken to ; being at length
reproved, she burst into tears, exclaiming, " I can't hear you."
It was then discovered that her hearing was greatly impaired.
She was placed under the care of the most eminent physicians,
both at the North and the South ; but their varied eflbrts
resulted, as is too often the 'case, only in an aggravation of the
evil. She lost tlie power to distinguish conversation, though
carried on in a loud key ; a power which to this day she has not
wholly recovered. She seems to have reconciled herself at once
to this deprivation, and though given more than ever to thought-
ful moods, and studious habits, was ever patient and cheei'ful.
In conversing with her, the common finger-alphabet was resorted
to, when necessary, but her extraordinary quickness of appre-
hension generally rendered such aids needless. She would join
in conversation with so much readiness and ease that strangers
seldom suspected her infirmity.
Her parents were at first greatly at loss as to the manner of
312 WOMEN' OFTHESOUTH.
conducting her education. Fortunately, she was advanced far
beyond most children of her age, and now, released from the
discipline of school, her natural love of study deepened into a
passion. It was soon found sufficient to throw suitable books
in her way, and thus, unassisted, she completed a thorough
scholastic course. She also acquired an extensive acquaintance
with the literature of the day, and her correct taste, and critical
discrimination, elicited the warmest encomiums from that prince
of critics, Edgar A. Poe.
At the age of twelve. Miss Talley developed an unsuspected
faculty, A friend having presented her with a bouquet, she
supplied herself with paper, pencils, and water-colors, shut her-
self in her own room, and, in the course of a few hours, produced
an almost perfect copy of the flowers. Masters were at once
procured, who assured her that her talent was of a high order.
Among these, the artist Kobert Sully was very solicitous that
she should devote herself to tlie cultivation of painting, and pre-
dicted for her a brilliant success. Had her father, whose inter,
est in, and devotion to, her culture never jflagged, but lived to
prosecute his generous designs, she might have accomplished
much in this line of art ; but with his death,, which occurred a
few years after, her enthusiasm departed, the palette was laid
aside and never after resumed, though her crayon drawings and
miniatures are not surpassed, for beauty and finish, by those of
any. artist in the country.
It was not until Miss Talley had entered her thirteenth year
that her poetic faculty became apparent to her family, she hav-
ing, through excessive modesty, carefully concealed all proofs
of its development. Some specimens of her verse then falling
under the eye of her father, he at once recognized in them the
flow of true genius, and very wisely, with a few encouraging
words, left her to the guidance of her own inspiration. In lier
sixteenth year, some of her poems appeared in the " Southern
SUSAX ARCHER TALLEY. 313
Literary Messenger," to wliich bhe lias ever since been an occa-
sional contributor.
In September, 1859, a collection of her poems was issued by
Rudd & Carleton, of !N^ew York. Tiiis volume has secured for
lier a distinction of wliicli she may ■well be proud. For
rhythmic melody, for sustained imagination, for depth of feel-
ing, and purity and elevation of sentiment, these poems are
equalled by lev, and surpassed by none of the productions of
our poets. They are rich, also, in those qualities of mind and
heart, which, apart from any literary prestige, win for Miss
Talley the esteem and afleetion of all who are admitted within
the choice circle of her friendship.
"With this evidence of a genius which has, probably, not yet
reached its maturity, we may confidently predict for this writer
a distinguished rank in the world of letters.
ElTIs^EPwSLIS.
PART FIRST.
A hoary tower, grim and higli,
All beneath a summer skv,
Where the river glideth by,
Sullenly — sullenly ;
Across the wave in sluggish glocm,
Heavy and black, the shadows loom-
But the water-lilies brightly bloom
Eound about grim Ennerslie.
All upon the bank below,
Alders green and willows grow,
That ever sway them to and fro,
Mournfully — mournfully ;
314 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Never a boat doth pass that way,
Never is heard a carol gay,
Nor doth a weary pilgrim stray
Down by haunted Eunerslie.
Yet in that tower is a room
From whose fretted oaken dome
Weird faces peer athwart the gloom,
Mockingly — mockingly ;
And there, beside the taper's gleam.
That maketh darkness darker seem.
As one that waketh in a dream,
Sits the lord of Ennerslie.
Sitteth in his carved chair —
From his ftirebead, pale and fair,
Falleth down the raven hair,
Heavily — heavily ;
■phere is no color in his cheek,
His lip is pale — he doth not speak —
And rarely doth his footstep break
The stillness of grim Ennerslie.
From the casement, mantled o'er
With ivy boughs and lichens hoar.
The shadows creep along the floor,
Stealthily — stealthily ;
They glide along, a spectral train.
And rest upon the blackened stain,
Where of old a corpse was liain —
Murdered at grim Ennerslie.
In a niche within the wall,
Where the shadows deepest fall,
Like a coffin and a pall,
Gloomily — gloomUy —
SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 315
Sits a ghostly owl, and grey,
That there hath sat for many a day,
And motionless, doth gaze alway
Upon the lord of Ennerslie.
Gazeth with its spectral eyes
Ever in a weird surprise,
Like some demon in disguise,
Steadily — steadily ;
And close beside that haunted nook
Bendeth o'er an open book,
With a wan and weary look,
The pale young lord of Ennerslie.
With a measured step, and slow,
At times he paceth to and fro,
Muttering in whispers low,
Fitfully— fitfully,
Or resting in his Gothic chair,
Gazeth on the vacant air :
Sure, some phantom sees he there,
The haunted lord of Ennerslie.
There is a picture on the wall,
A statue on a pedestal —
Standing where the sunbeams fall
Goldenly — goldenly ;
And alike, in form and face,
The self- same beauty beareth trace :
Imaged with a wondrims grace
This fairy form at Ennerslie.
Once, 'tis said, upon a time,
In the flush of youthful prime.
Wandering in a sotithern clime
Kestlessly — restlessly —
316 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
There passed him by a lady fair,
With violet eyes and golden hair ;
It is her form that gleameth there —
That fairy form at Eanerslie,
He saw her 'raid a festal throng,
He heard her sing a plaintive song, —
He sings it yet those shades among,
Mournfully — mournfully ;
He saw her but a little space,
Yet haunted by that angel-grace
He wrouglit the beauteous form and face,
When back returned to Ennerslie.
When the sun is in the west,
And the water-lilies rest,
Rocking on the river's breast
Sleepily — sleepily ;
When the woodlands, far remote,
Startle to the night-bird's note,
Down the river glides a boat
From the shades of Ennerslie,
Glideth down by Ellesmaire,
Where doth dwell a lady fair
With violet eyes and golden hair,
Lonesomely — lonesomely ;
At the window's height alway,
She waves a scarf of colors gay.
And in the distance, grim and grey,
She seeth haunted Ennerslie.
Sitting in her lonely room,
Once, amid the twilight gloom,
Bending o'er her fairy loom
Wearily — wearily,
SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 31 f
She heareth music, sweet and low ;
It is a song she well doth know,
She used to sing it long ago —
It Cometh up from Ennerslie.
Back she threw the casement wide ;
She saw the river onward glide,
The lilies nodding on the tide,
Sleepily — sleepily ;
She saw a boat with snowy sail,
Bearing onward with the gale —
She saw the silken streamer pale —
She saw the lord of Ennerslie.
Carelessly he passed along
The drooping willow shades among,
Singing still that plaintive song
Mournfully — mournfully ;
Upon her hand she leant her head,
She mused until the day was dead ;
"Oh, he was pale and sad," she said^
"And it is lone at Ennerslie."
PAET SECOND.
Fading are the summer leaves,
The fields are rich with golden sheaves;
Her silken scarf the lady weaves
"Wearily — wearily ;
Her cheek hath lost its summer bloom, .
Her lovely eyes are full of gloom ;
She weaveth at her fairy loom,
And looketh down to Ennerslie.
She doth not smile, she doth not sigh ;
Above her is the cold grey sky.
Below, the river moaneth by
Drearily — drearily ;
318 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
She sees the withered leaflets ride
Like fairy barks adown the tide ;
She saith, "Right joyously they glide,
For they go down to Ennerslie !"
And oft, when in the chamber wall
The snnset hues in splendor fall,
And mystic woodland echoes call
Rodingly — bodingly ;
She draws aside the curtain's flow,
And in the quiet stream below
She watcheth, gliding onward slow,
The snowy sail from Ennerslie.
Beside her, on the hearth of stone,
There sits a bent and withered crone,
"Who doth forever rock and moan
Drowsily — drowsily ;
She erooneth songs of mystic rhyme,
And legends of the olden time ;
She telleth tales of death and crime.
She tells of haunted Ennerslie.
She telleth how, as she hath heard,
Thei-e dwelleth there a spirit weird
In seeming of a ghostly bird,
Ceaselessly — ceaselessly ;
Because one hundred years agone
A bloody murder there was done,
A fearful curse doth rest upon
The haughty race of Ennerslie.
"But tell me, nurse," the lady said,
*' What is this curse so dark and dread?"
The nurse she shook her aged head
Solemnly — solemnly ;
SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 319
" He crazed, by whom the deed was done,
And it doth run from sire to sou ;
Some time the curse shall light upon
This strange young lord of Ennerslie ;
" But should some youthful maiden dare
For true love's sake to enter tliere,
The curse herself shall break and bear,
Fearfully — fearfully."
And then she lauglied, the beldame old ;
" Saint Mary ! she were wondrous bold
"Who should for either love or gold
Set free the curse from Ennerslie!"
She telle th how that dotard crone,
He loved a Lidy years agone,
The fairest that the earth hath known,
Secretly — secretly ;
But dared not woo her for his bride.
Because the doom will sure betide
The first that in her beauty's ])ride
Shall go to haunted Ennerslie.
She listened, but she nothing said ;
Like a lily drooped her liead ;
Her white hand wound the silken thread
Listlessly — listlessly ;
She rove the scarf from out the loom,
She paced the floor, she crossed the room.
And gleaming through the twilight gloom
She saw the light at Ennerslie.
The nurse, she slumbered in hgr chair ;
Then up arose that lady fair
And crept adown the winding stair
Stealthily — stealthily ;
320 WOMEiN" OF THE SOUTH.
A boat was bj the river side,
The silken scarf as sail she tied.
And lovely in her beauty's pride
Went gliding down to Ennerslie.
Back upon the sighing gale
Her tresses floated, like a veil ;
Her brow was cold, her cheek was pale,
Fearfully — fearfully ;
"Was that a whisper in her ear ?
Was that a shadow hovering near?
Her very life-blood chilled with fear
As down she went to Ennerslie.
As upward her blue eyes she cast,
A shadowy form there flitted past
And settled on the quivering mast
Silently — silently.
The lady gazed, yet spake no word :
She knew it was the demon bird,
The dark avenging spirit weird
That dwelt at haunted Ennerslie,
Fainter from the tower's height
Seems to her the beacon-light,
Gleaming on her misty sight
Fitfully— fitfully ;
The river's voice is faint and low,
A chilly dew is on her brow ;
She saith, " The curse is on me now
But 'tis no more on Ennerslie ;"
"And he will never know," she sighed,
" When hither comes his Soutliern bride,
That one for love of him hath died
Secretly — secretly ;
SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 321
I knew that here I could not stay —
My heart was breaking day by day ;
And dying thus I take away
The evil spell from Ennerslie."
Amid that tower's solitude
He sittetli in a musing mood,
And gazeth down upon ihe flood
Mournfully — mournfully ;
"When lo ! he sees a tiny bark
Gliding amid the shadows dark,
And there a lady still and stark —
A wondrous sight at Ennerslie I
He hurried to the bank below,
Upon the strand lie drew the prow —
He drew it iu the moonlight's glow
Eagerly — -eagerly ;
He parted back the golden hair
That veiled her cheek and forehead fair;
Why starts he at that beauty rare,
The pale young lord of Ennerslie ?
He called her name — she nothing said ;
Upon his bosom drooped her head;
The soul had from the body fled
Utterly — utterly !
Slowly rolled the sluggish tide —
The breeze amid the willows sighed ;
" Oh, God! the curse is on me!" cried
The stricken lord of Ennerslie.
21
322 WOMEN or the south.
SUMMER FOON-DAY DREAIiL
The leaves are still, the breezes hushed.
Or sing a drowsy number,
And all throughout the silent day
The golden hours slumber.
The ripples idly lapse along
Beneath the noon-tide's gleaming ;
Oh, sure the drowsy summer -time
Was made alone for dreaming.
Within my open window floats
A slumbrous breath of roses,
And in the softly-shaded room,
Silence itself reposes :
And liquid lustres on the wall
Cool, rippling waves resemble.
As to and fro, with motion slow,
The leafy shadows tremble.
A sense of silence and repose —
Of slow and tranquil motion ;
A murmur as of sleeping winds
Upon a sleeping ocean,
And softly o'er my senses steals
A luxury Elysian,
And all delights of drowsy thought
Are mingled in my vision.
Oh, chiding voices, wake me not,
Nor turn my rhyme to reason —
For life is mingled work and play,
And each may have its season.
The winter-time for study's toil,
The spring for pleasure's scheming,
Autumn for the poet's thought,
And summer-time for dreaming!
SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 323
THE SIKENS.
Hither, oh, hither I
"Wanderer on the drearv ocean,
Weary of its wild commotion,
Hither flee,
Here are rest and peace for thee !
Ere the day grow dim and the nijjht grow dark,
Oh, hither speed your lonely bark,
Hither, hither!
No storms disturb our peaceful isle,
No tempests wreck our happy shore j
All in calm repose doth smile.
All is rest fore verm ore.
Evermore!
Hark ! the waves on the echoing shore
Murmur as they softly pour,
"Evermore, evermore!
Peace and rest forevermorel"
Hither, hither!
Wherefore toil on the stormy main ?
Wherefore trust to the treacherous sea?
Spare your labor, spare your pain.
Come and rest ye, e'en as we!
All things rest, and why not ye?
All from life hath gladness won.
Why should care be thine alone ?
Lo I see ye not how the playful waves
Come laughing up from the restless sea,
Chasing each in their careless glee.
Merrily, merrily !
And the halcyons swing with their snowy breasts,
Up and down on the billows' crests,
That come and go,
To and fro.
324 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Softly, dreamily, and slow,
Murmuring in quiet measure
Lowly tones of drowsy pleasure ;
Till all happy things that glide
Underneath the emerald tide
Linger, and with wistful eye
Glance them upward silently,
Silently ;
Swaying as they idly lie
To and fro,
Soft and slow,
To the sea's wild melody.
Hither, hither!
"Would ye revel in beauty's light.
Come where beauty forever smiles ;
Would ye feast upon life's delight,
Haste, oh, haste to our happy isles.
Here, amid wealth of fragrant flowers,
Deep in the cooling shade we lie.
Here we rest, while the charmed hours
Float in their languid beauty by ;
Over us float as we dreaming lie,
Lazily, lazily !
And we upward i-each where the clusters swell
Rich and rare in the ripening sun,
And we daintily pluck them, one by one,
And press their juice in a pearly shell ;
And our love-lit eyes more brightly shine
As we bathe our lips in the ruby wine;
While over our shoulders white and bare,
O'er blushing cheek and forehead fair,
Falleth a wealth of golden hair,
Rippling down, softly down.
From under the perfumed myrtle crown;
And the Spirit of Life, as the wine we sip,
Flushes in heart, and cheek, and lip.
SUSAN ARCHER TALLET. 325
Warming and thrilling us tlirougli and through,
And the love and the beauty are all for you,
All for you !
Hither, hither!
Spread your sails to the wooing winds,
Speed your bark to our happy shore,
Where love and joy in a circle binds
The charmed hours forevermore,
Evermore !
Hark ! the waves on the echoing shore
Murmur as they softly pour,
" Evermore, evermore !
Love and joy forevermore !"
BY THE WINDOW.
By the window, when the sunset
Crimsons all the glowing west,
Sit I with my favorite poet
In his golden fancies blest ;
And a flood of rarest music
Thrills through all my raptured breast.
By the window, in the twilight,
With the book upon my knee,
Yield I to a quiet musing,
To a blissful reverie.
Till, from out the purple heavens
Blessings seem to fall on me.
By the window, when the moonlight
Falls through jasmin boughs, I wait —
Watching with unquiet pleasure,
Half subdued and half elate,
For the form that soon shall enter
At the bowered garden gate.
326 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
By the windo-w, in the starlight,
Many a happy hour we s{)en(l ;
And as moonlight with the starlight,
So our thoughts together blend ;
And we thank God for the loving
That His greater love doth send.
REST.
Lay him gently to his rest,
Fold his pale hands on his breast ;
From his brow —
Oh, how cold and marble fair ! —
Softly part the tangled hair ;
Look upon him now !
As a weary child he lies,
With the quiet, dreamless eyes
O'er which the lashes darkly sweep—
And on his lip the quiet smile,
The soul's adieu to earthly strife,
And on his face the deep repose
We never saw in life.
Peaceful be his rest and deep :
Let him sleep !
Ko tears for him — he needs them not.
Along life's drear and toilsome road
Firmly his manly footsteps trode,
Striving to bear his weary lot.
With such a pride upon his brow,
With such a pain within his heart — •
The firmness of the manly will
Veiling the secret smart.
Oh, it is well the strife is o'er.
That thus so peacefully he lies,
Unheeding now tbe bitter words,
The cold, unpitying eyes.
SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY. 327
Fold his mantle o'er bis breast,
Peaceful be bis sleep, and blest ;
Let bim rest !
IsTo sigb to breathe above his bier.
No tear to stain the marble brow,
Only -with tender pitying love,
Only with faith that looks above,
"We gaze upon him now ;
No thought of toil and suffering past —
But joy to think the task is done,
The heavy cross at last laid down,
The crown of glory won.
Oh, bear him gently to his rest,
Oh, gently pile the flowery sod, .
And leave his body to the dust,
His spirit with his God !
AUGUSTA J. EVANS.
It is not many months since tlie reading world was electri-
fied by tlie advent of a book bearing the modest name of
" Beulah." There was nothing wonderful in the appearance of
a new novel, written by a woman ; this was a ruling feature of
the day. But it was evident that " B.eulali " did not run in the
usual groove. Some* unfamiliar domain of fancy or theory had
been invaded ; a vein had been struck which gave out the ring
of golden ore, and all were on tlie qui vive. The scholastic tone
of the book, its analytic subtleties, range and research, indicated
an author of advanced years, a rigid student, and a sturdy indi-
vidualism. The press teemed with generous notices ; the cavillers
were a harmless minority. One of the latter at last discovered
that much of the book was stolen from Dickens' "Bleak House ;"
but as the author had never read " Bleak House " and was, in
her own words, " as ignorant of its style and plot as of the
mysteries of the Brahmins, locked up in Sanscrit " (mysteries
which, we doubt not, have tant Ized her investigating mind
quite as much as Blue Beard's £ 3t ever haunted the brain of
Fatima), the sorry shot fell w'th. t effect. To whatever criti-
cism the book might be open, it certainly could not well be
charged with plagiarism. Its dominant spirit was a dogged
independence of thought and action. The downright, upright,
outright author of " Beulah " could scarcely be accused of
filching.
As a climacteric, th' came the intelligence that the writer
828
I
i^ (^/^^~z:z^7-'i^
C-B. Richardson,PablistLer
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. . 329
was not a fossil specimen of the genus woman, or pliilosoplier,
but a girl of twenty-lliree years, wliose knowledge of life
extended little beyond lier books, lier lionie, a few choice
friends, and her own intuitions. The book, " Beulah," ran
rapidly througli one edition after another, and lias, at this
writing, reached a circulation of twenty-one thousand copies.
Augusta J. Evans was born near Columbus, Georgia. She
is the eldest of eight children, and a descendant, on the maternal
side, from the Howards, one of the most lionorable families of
the State. When she was a mere child, her father removed
with his family to Texas. The succeeding year was divided
between Galveston and Houston, and, early in 1847, they again
removed to the then frontier town of San Antonio.
Mis3 Evans has a vivid remembrance of this phase of her
life. The Mexican war was then at its height, and San Antonio
was a place of rendezvous for the United States troops, sent to
reinforce Gen. Taylor. Between the lawlessness of the soldiery,
and the incongruous nature of the population, society was in a
thoroughly disorganized state. There were no schools worth
the name, and her mother, who is said to be a woman of great
intelligence and culture, as well as rare moral excellence, took
upon herself the office of educator.
The childhood of our author was somewhat isolated and
lonely. Her brothers were too young to share even in her
girlish sports, and only to her mother and her books could she
look for companionship. Doubtless to this fact may be traced,
in a great measure, the precocious habits of thought and
research which distinguish her writings.
It was in San Antonio that the idea of authorship first
dawned upon her. In a characteristic letter, just received, she
says :
"I remember ramblinsr about the crumblino; walls of the
Alamo, recalling all its bloody horrors ; and as I climbed the
330 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
moldering, melancholy pile, to watch the last rays of the
setting sun gild the hill-tops, creep down the sides, and slowly
sink into the blue waves of the San Antonio River : as I looked
over the quietly beautiful valley, with its once noble Alameda
of stately cottonwoods, my heart throbbed, and I wondered if I
should be able, some day, to write about it for those who had
never looked upon a scene so fair. I seem, even now, to be
winding once more through that lovely valley, holding my
mother's hand tightly, as she repeated beautiful descriptions
from Thomson's 'Seasons' and Cowper's 'Task;' again I see
the white flock slowly descending tlie hills, and bleating as
they wound home to my father's fold." '
After a two years' residence at San Antonio, the family
removed to Alabama, and setted in Mobile, where they now
reside. Here our author was placed for a brief time at school,
but her health beginning to fail, her mother became again her
companion and instructor.
Early in her seventeenth year, she wrote " Inez, a Tale of
the Alamo ;" in which she designed to show the abuses of papacy,
as they were revealed to her in San Antonio, and to embody
the principal features of the Texan War of Independence. No
one but her mother knew of her ambitious project, and one
Christmas morning she placed the MS. in the hands of her
father as a Christinas surprise. This work was brought out
anonymously, in 1855. It is marked by the same features which
give to her later work its stern individuality, though it is less
happy in style and artistic effect. We do not expect a mere
Bchool-girl to leap at once into the finished and ornate manner
of the practised writer. " Inez " was noticed very favorably by
the press, with the exception of the Catholic journals, which, as
a matter of course, took umbrage at her strictures upon papacy,
and charged at the young heretic with might and main.
With this experience in the way of " bitter-sweet," our
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 331
author continued her studies, and, for tliree years, wrote lit-
tle, except book notices for tlie Mobile papers; very wisely
reserving forces for the work which was to give her name to
fame.
In the autumn of 1859, " Beulah " was published, witli the
name of the author, by Messrs. Derby & Jackson, and from that
time to the present, has been consfantly in the eye of the public*
Skepticism is the Upas tree of the age. Its poisonous roots
underlie some of our fairest gardens of mental and spiritual
culture. Its baneful breath is everywhere. We have lost the
sweet trusting faith of our fathers. We glory in our profnnditv,
in our logical acumen, in the audacity of our unbelief. Xotliin^
is too high, notliing too deep for our comprehension. Whatever
looms beyond the magnificent reach of our thought, or shuts
out from the grand sweep of our horizon, is a delusion. We
will have none of it. At this pernicious growth among us,
this book is aimed. The author of " Beulah " is terribly in
earnest. She herself has evidently traversed the whole waste
of rationalism, over which we slowly and painfully follow her
heroine. She takes "Beulah" by the hand and goes over the
ground with merciless fidelity ; not a doubt is left unturned.
Every dragon of speculation which once assailed her is
unearthed, and over again is fought the strong battle. We
wrestle ourselves^ and grow old, and wasted, and haggard, in the
protracted contest. This intensely vitalized action of the book
is its grand feature and fulcrum; effecting more than whole
folios of mere argument.
But Beulah Benton and Guy Hartwell are much more
familiar with Carlyle's " Ilerr Teufelsdrockh " than with Ovid's
"Art of Love." They make a grim pair of lovers enough, and
throw into spasms of impatience all who are wading through
" ontology," " psychology," " eclecticism," etc., merely for
some green isle of " billing and cooing ;" but they belong to
352 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
an existing type, and are in keeping with tlie austere, determi-
nate cliaracter of the book.
" Beulah " is perhaps, more than anything else, a bounteous
promise. If at twenty-three the writer can bring so much, what
may we not expect of her riper years ?
Notwithstanding the celebrity which she has suddenly
achieved, Miss Evans is still much of a recluse. The habits
formed in earlier life have become a part of her nature, and she
finds in her home, her books, music, and flowers, her truest
happiness. In her mother, especially, do her purest affections
geem to centre. " She is, in every sense, my Alma Mater," she
writes, " the one to whom I owe everything, and whom I rever-
ence more than all else on earth."
A fondness for metaphysical subtleties, and a constant incli-
nation to turn to philosophic studies, would seem to be normal
characteristics of our author's mind, and not altogether the
result of circumstance and culture. From her childhood she
lias been much given to speculation and analysis, subjecting
every theory or system, which came under her notice, to the
most rigid scrutiny, and then taking positive ground witli regard
to it. Thus, in reading " Inez," one would suppose that she had
devoted her short life to a study of the arts, and perversions of
papacy; while "Beulah" would seem to be the result of at
least a half century of metaphysical and philosophic research.
In her cottage home, a little distance from Mobile, within
view of the " piney woods," whose soughing music sets itself to
a sweet monotone .of her nature. Miss Evans moves quietly on
ber way, filling the days with steady application, and those
tmobtrusive, kindly acts, which, more than any other, do beau-
tify and ennoble character. Some abstruse subject is doubtless,
even now, simmering in her mental crucible, soon to be trans-
muted by a subtle alchemy into crystals of truth.
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 33^
LILLY'S DEATH.
Several tedious weeks had rolled away, since Eugene Graham left hLs
■ sunny southern home, to seek learning in the venerable universities of the
old world. Blue-eyed May, the carnival month of the year, had clothed the
earth with verdure, and enamelled it with flowers of every hue, scattering
her treasures before the rushing car of summer. During the winter, scarlet
fever had hovered threateningly over the city, hut as the spring advanced,
hopes were entertained' that all danger had passed. Consequently, when it
was announced that the disease had made its appearance in a very malignant
form, in the house adjoining Mrs. Martin's, she determined to send her chil-
dren out of town.' A relative, living at some distance up the river, happened
to be visiting lier at the time, and as she intended returning home the fol-
lowing day, kindly oifered to take charge of the children, until all traces of
the disease had vanished. To this plan, Beulah made no resistance, though
■the memory of her little sister haunted her hourly. What could she do?
Make one last attempt to see her, and if again refused, then it mattered not
whither she went. When the preparations for their journey had been com-
pleted, and Johnny slept soundly in his crib, Beulah put on her old straw
bonnet, and set out for Mr. Grayson's residence. The sun was low in the
sky, and the evening breeze rippling the waters of the bay, stirred the luxu-
riant foliage of the aucient china-trees that bordered the pavements. The
orphan's heart was heavy with undefined dread ; such a dread as had
oppressed her the day of her separation from her sister.
" Coining events cast their shadows before,"
And she was conscious that the sun-set glow could not dispel the spectral
gloom which enveloped her. She walked on, with her head bowed, like one
stooping from an impending blow, and when at last the crouching lions con-
fronted her, she felt as if her heart had suddenly frozen. There stood the
doctor's buggy. She sprang up the steps, and stretched out her hand for the
bolt of the door. Long streamers of crape floated through her fingers. She
stood still a moment, then threw open the door, and rushed in. The hall
floor was covered to muffle the tread ; not a sound reached her, save the
stirring of the china-trees outside. Her hand was on the balustrade to
334 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
ascend the steps, but her eyes fell upon a piece of crape fastened to tbe
parlor door, and pushing it ajar she looked in. The furniture was draped;
even the mirrors, aad pictures, and on a small oblong table in the centre of
the room, lay a shrouded form. An overpowering perfume of crushed
flowers filled the air, and Beulah stood on the threshold, with her hands
extended, and her eyes fixed upon the table. There were two children ;
Lilly might yet live, and an unvoiced prayer went up to God, that the dead
might be Claudia. Then like scathing lightning came the recollection of her
curse ; " May God answer their prayers, as they answered mine." With
rigid limbs she tottered to the table, and laid her hands on the velvet pall ;
wdth closed eyes she drew it down, then held her breath and looked. There
lay her idol, in the marble arms of death. Ah ! how matchlessly beautiful,
wrapped in her last sleep ! The bright golden curls glittered around the
snowy brow, and fioated like wandering sunlight over the arms and shoul-
ders. The tiny waxen fingers clasped each other as in life, and the delicately
chiselled lips were just parted, as though the sleeper whispered. BeulaVs
ga^e dwelt upon this mocking loveliness, then the arms were thrown wildiy
up, and with a long, wailing cry, her head sank heavily on the velvet
cushion, beside the cold face of her dead darling. How long it rested there,
she never knew. Earth seemed to pass aM^ay ; darkness closed over her, and
for a time she had no pain, no sorrow ; she and Lilly were together. AH
was black, and she had no feeling. Then she was lifted, and the motion
aroused her torpid faculties ; she moaned and opened her eyes. Dr. Hart-
well was placing her on a sofa, and Mrs. Grayson stood by the table with a
handkerchief over her eyes. With returning consciousness came a raving
despair; Beulah sprang from the strong arm that strove to detain her, and
laying one clinched hand on the folded fingers of the dead, raised the other
fiercely toward Mrs. Grayson, and exclaimed almost frantically :
" You have murdered her ! I knew it would be so. when you took my
"darling from my arms, and refused my prayer! Aye! my prayer! I knelt
ajid prayed you in the name of God, to let me see her once more; to let me
hold her to my heart, and kiss' her lips, and her forehead, and little slender
hands. You scorned a poor girl's prayer ; you taunted me with my poverty,
and locked me from my darling, my Lilly ! my all ! Oh, woman I you drove
me wild, and I cursed you and your husband. Ha! has your wealth and
splendor saved her ? God have mercy upon me; I feel as if I could cur^e
you eternally. Could you not have sent for me before she died ? Oh, if I
could only have taken her in my arms, and seen her soft angel eyes looking
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 335
up to me, and felt her little arms around my neck, and heard her say ' sister
for the last time ! Would it have taken a dime from your purse", or made
you less fashionable, to have sent for me before slie died ? ' Sucli measure
as ye mete, shall be meted to you again.' May you live to have your heart
trampled and crushed, even as you have trampled mine !"
Her arm sank to her side, and once more the blazing eyes were fastened
on the young sleeper ; while Mrs. Grayson, cowering like a frightened child,
left the room. Beulah fell on her knees, and crossing her arms on the table,
bowed her head ; now and then, broken, wailing tones passed the white lips.
Dr. Uartwell stood in a recess of the window, with folded arms and tightly
compressed mouth, watching the young mourner. Once he moved toward
her, then drew back, and a derisive smile distorted his features, as though
he scorned himself for the momentary weakness. He turned suddenly away,
and reached the door, but paused to look back. The old straw bonnet, with
its faded pink ribbon, had fallen oif, and heavy folds of black hair veiled the
bowed face. He noted the slight, quivering form, and the thin hands, and a
look of remorseful agony swept over his countenance. A deadly pallor
settled on cheek and brow, as, with an expression of iron resolve, he
retraced his steps, and putting his hand on the orphan's shoulder, said
gently :
" Beulah, this is no place for you. Come with me, child."
She shrank from his touch, and put up one hand, waving him off.
" Your sister died with the scarlet fever, and Claudia is now very ill with
it. If you stay here, you will certainly take it yourself."
" I hope I shall take it."
He laid his fingers on the pale high brow, and softly drawing back the
thick hair, said earnestly :
"Beulah, come home with me. Be my child: my daughter."
Again her hjind was raised to put him aside.
" No : you would hate me for my ugliness. Let me hide it in th/S grave
with Lilly. They cannot separate us there.".
He lifted her head ; and, looking down into the haggard face, answered
kindly :
" I promise you I will not think you ugly. I will make you happy.
Come to me, child."
She shook her head, with a moan. Passing his arm around her, he
raised her from the carpet, and leaned her head against him.
" Poor little sufferer ! they have made you drink, prematurely, earth's
336 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
bitter draughts. They have disenchanted your childhood of its fairy-like
future. Beulah, you are ill now. Do not struggle so. You must come with
me, my child."
He took her in his strong arms, and bore her out of the house of death.
His buggy stood at the door, and, seating himself in it, he directed the boy
who accompanied him to " drive home." Beidah offered no resistance ; she
hid her face in her hands, and sat quite still, scarcely conscious of what
passed. She knew that a firm arm held her securely, and, save her wretched-
ness, knew nothing else. Soon she was lifted out of the buggy, carried up
a flight of steps, and then a flood of light passed through the fingers, upon
her closed eyelids. Dr. Ilartwell placed his charge on a sofa, and rang the
bell. The summons was promptly answered by a negro woman of middle
age. She stood at the door awaiting the order, but his eyes were bent on
the floor, and his brows knitted.
*' Master, did you ring?"
" Yes, tell my sister to come to me." -
He took a turn across across the floor, and paused by the open window.
As the night air rustled the brown locks on his temples, he sighed deeply.
The door opened, and. a tall, slender woman, of perhaps thirty-five years,
entered the room. She was pale and handsome, with a profusion of short
chestnut curls about her face. With her hand resting on the door, she said
in a calm, clear tone :
*' Well, Guy ?"
He started, and turning from the window, approached her.
"May, I want a room arranged for this child as soon as possible. Will
you see that a hot foot-bath is provided? When it is ready, send Harriet
for her."
His sister's lips curled as she looked searchingly at the figure on the sofa,
and said, coldly :
" What freak now, Guy ?"
For a moment their eyes met steadily, and he smiled grimly.
*' I intend to adopt that poor orphan ; that is all !"
"Where did you pick her up, at the hospital?" said she sneeringly.
" No, she has been hired as a nurse, at a boarding-house."
He folded his arms, and again they looked at each other.
" I thought you had had quite enough of prote ,es."
She nervously clasped and unclasped her jet bracelet.
" Take care, May Chilton ! Mark me. Lift the pall from the past once
AUGUSTA J. EVAKS. " 337
mor:-, and you and Pauline must find another home, another protector.
Now, will you see that a room is prepared as I directed."
He was very pale, and his eyes burned fiercely, yet his tone was calm
and subdued. Mrs. Chilton bit her lips, and withdrew. Dr. Hartwell
walked up and down the room for awhile, now and then looking sadly at the
young stranger. She sat just as he had placed her, with her hands over her
face. Kindly he bent down, and whispered :
" Will you trust me, Beulah ?"
She made no ans^ver, but he saw her brow wrinkle, and knew that she
shuddered. The servant came in to say that the room had been arranged, as
he had directed. However surprised she might have been at this sudden
advent of the simply clad orphan in her master's study, there was not tho
faintest indication of it in her impenetrable countenance. Not even the
raising of an eyebrow.
" Harriet, see that her feet are well bathed ; and, when she is in bed,
come for some medicine."
Then, drawing the hands from her eyes, he said to Beulah :
" Go with her, my child. I am glad I have you safe under my own roof,
where no more cruel injustice can assail you."
He pressed her hand kindly, and, rising mechanically, Beulah accom-
panied Harriet, who considerately supported the drooping form. The room
to which she was conducted was richly furnished, and lighted by an elegant
colored lamp, suspended from the ceiling. Mrs. Chilton stood near an arm-
chair, looking moody and abstracted. Harriet carefully undressed the poor
mourner, and wrapping a shawl about her, placed her in the chair, and bathed
her feet. Mrs. Chilton watched her with ill-concealed impatience. When
the little dripping feet were dried, Harriet lifted her, as if she had been an
infant, and placed her in bed, then brought the medicine from the study, and
administered a spoonful of the mixture. Placing her finger on the girl's
wrist, she counted the rapid pulse, and turning unconcernedly toward Mrs.
Chilton, said :
" Miss May, master says you need not trouble about the medicine. I am
to sleep in the room and take care of this little girl."
" Very well. See that she is properly attended to, as my brother directed.
My head aclies miserably, or I should remain myself."
She glanced at the bed, and left the room. Harriet leaned over the pillow
and examined the orphan's countenance. The eyes were closed, but scalding
22
33S WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
tears rolled swiftly over the cheeks, and the hands were clasped over the brow,
as if to still its throbbings. Harriet's face softened, and she said kindly :
" Poor thing ! what ails you ? What makes yon cry so ?"
Beulah pressed her head closer to the pillow, and murmured :
" I am so miserable ! I want to die, and God will not take me."
" Don't say that, till you see whether you've got the scarlet fever. If yon
have, you are likely to be taken pretty soon, I can tell you ; and if you
haven't, why, it's all for the best. It is a bad plan to fly in the Almighty's
face, that way, and tell him what he shall do, and what he shan't."
This philosophic response fell unheeded on poor Beulah's ears, and Har-
riet was about to inquire more minutely into the cause of her grief, but she
perceived her master standing beside her, and immediately moved away
from the bed. Drawing out his watch, he counted the pulse several times.
The result seemed to trouble him, and he stood for some minutes watching
the motionless form.
" Harriet, bring me a glass of ice water."
Laying his cool hand on the hot forehead of the suffering girl, he said,
tenderly :
" My child, try not to cry any more to-night. It is very bitter, I know ;
but remember, that though Lilly has been taken from you, from this day
you have a friend, a home, a guardian."
Harriet proffered the glass of water. He took it, raised the head, and
put the sparkling draught to Beulah's parched lips. "Without unclosing her
eyes, she drank the last crystal drop, and laying the head back on the pillow,
he drew an arm-chair before the window at the further end of the room, and
eeated himself.
BEULAH BENTON AND GUY HAETWELL AS LOVERS.
The door stood open, and vnth bonnet and shawl in her hafid, she entered,
little prepared to meet her guardian, for she had absented herself, with the
hope of avoiding him. He was sitting by a table, preparing some medicine,
and looked up involuntarily as she came in. His eyes lightened instantly,
but he merely said :
" Good evening, Beulah."
The tone was less icy than on previous occasions, and crossing the room
at once, slie stood beside him, and held out her hand.
" IIow are vou, sir?"
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 339
He did not take the hand, but looked at her keenly, and said :
" You are an admirable nurse, to go otf and leave your sick friend."
Beulah threw down her bonnet and shawl, and retreating to the hearth,
began to warm her fingers, as she replied, with indifterence :
" I have just left another of your patients. Cornelia Graham has been
worse than usual for a day or two. Clara, I will put away my out-door
wrappings, and be with you presently." She retired to her own room, and
leaning against the window, where the rain was now pattering drearily, she
murmured faintly :
" Will he always treat me so ? Have I lost my friend forever ? Once he
was so di fferent ; so kind, even in his sternness!" A tear hung upon her
lash, and fell on her hand ; she brushed it hastily away, and stood thinking
over this alienation, so painful and unnatural, when she heard her guardian
close Clara's door, and walk across the hall, to the head of the stairs. She
"waited awhile, until she thought he had reached his buggy, and slowly pro-
ceeded to Clara's room. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, and her hand was
already on the bolt of the door, when a deep voice startled her.
"Beulah!"
She looked up at him proudly. Resentment had usurped the place of
grief. But she could not bear the earnest eyes, that looked into hers with
such misty splendor ; and provoked at her own emotion, she asked, coldly-:
" What do you want, sir?"
He did not answer at once, but stood observing her closely. She felt the
hot blood rush into her unusually- cold, pale face, and, despite her efforts to
seem perfectly indilTerent, her eyelids and lips would tremble. His hand
rested lightly on her shoulder, and he spoke very gently :
" Child, have you been ill ? You look wretchedly. What ails, yon,
Beulah !"
■" Nothing, sir."
" That will not answer. Tell me, child, tell me !" ' ■
" I tell you I am as well as usual," cried she, impatiently, yet her voice
faltered. She was struggling desperately with her own heart. The return
of his old manner, the winning tones of his voice, affected her more than
she was willing he should see.
" Beulah, you used to be truthful and candid."
"I am so still," she returned, stoutly, though tears began to gather in
her eyes.
" No, child, already the world lias changed you.**
340 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
A shadow fell over his face, and the sad eyes were like clouded stars.
" You know better, sir ! I am just what I always was ! It is you who
are so changed! Once you were my friend; my guardian! Once you
were kind, and guided me; but now you are stern, and bitter, and
tyrannical!"
, She spoke passionately, and tears, which she bravely tried to force back,
rolled swiftly down her cheeks. His light touch on her shoulder tightened,
until it seemed a hand of steel, and with an expression which she never
forgot, even in after years, he answered :
" Tyrannical ! Not to you, child !"
" Yes, sir, tyrannical ! cruelly tyrannical ! Because I dared to think and
act for myself, you have cast me- off — utterly ! You try to see how cold and
distant you can be ; and show me that you don't care whether I live or die,
so long as I chose to be independent of you. I did not believe that you
could ever be so ungenerous !" ^
She looked up at him with swimming eyes. He smiled down into her
tearful face, and asked :
" Why did you defy my, child ?"
" I did not, sir, until you treated me worse than the servants. Worse
than you did Oharon even."
"How?"
" How, indeed ! You left me in your own house without one word of
go.od bye, when you expected to be absent an indefinite time. Did you sup-
pose, that I would remain there an hour after such treatment?"
He smiled again, and said in the low musical tone, which she had always
found so difficult to resist :
" Come back, my child. Come back to me."
" Never, sir ! Never ! " answered she, resolutely.
A stony hue settled on his face ; the lips seemed instantly frozen, and
removing his hand from her shoulder, he said, as if talking to a perfect
stranger :
" See that Clara Sanders needs nothing ; she is far from being well."
He left her, but her heart conquered for an instant, and she sprang down
two steps, and caught his hand. Pressing her face against his arm, she
exclaimed, brokenly :
" Oh, sirl do not cast me off entirely I My friend, my guardian ; indeed^
I have not deserved this !
He laid hia hand on her bowed head, and said calmly :
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 341
" Fierce, proud spirit I Ah ! it will take long years of trial and suffering
to tame you. Go, Beulali ! You have cast yourself off. It was no wish, no
work of mine."
He lifted her head from his arm, gently unclasped her fingers, and walked
away.
FIRST STEP INTO THE DARK.
An hour after, Clara slept soundly, and Beulah sat in her own room bend-
ing over a book. Midnight study had long since become a habitual thing ;
nay, two and three o'clock, frequently found her beside the waning lamp.
Was it any marvel that, as Dr. Hartwell expressed it, " she looked wretch-
edly?" From her earliest childhood, she had been possessed by an active
spirit of inquiry, which constantly impelled her to investigate, and as far as
possible to explain the mysteries which surrounded her on every side.
With her growth, grew this haunting spirit, which asked continually, " What
ami? Whence did I come ? And whither ami bound? What is life?
What is death ? Am I my own mistress, or am I but a tool in the hands of
my Maker? What constitutes the diiference between my mind, and my
body? Is there any difference? If spirit must needs have body to incase it,
and body must have a spirit to animate it, may they not be identical ? With
these primeval foundation questions, began her speculative career. In the
solitude of her own soul, she struggled bravely and earnestly to answer those
" dread questions, which, like swords of flaming fire, tokens of imprison-
ment, encompass man on earth." Of course, mystery triumphed. Panting
for the truth, she pored over her Bible, supposing that here, at least, all
clouds would melt away 5 but here, too, some inexplicable passages confronted
her. Physically, morally and mentally, she found the world warring. To recon-
cile these antagonisms with the conditions and requirements of Holy Writ,
she now most faithfully set to work. Ah, proudly- aspiring soul! How many
earnest thinkers had essayed the same mighty task, and died under the into-
lerable burden ? Unluckily for her there was no one to direct or assist her.
she scrupulously endeavored to conceal her doubts and questions from her
guardian. Poor child ! she fancied she concealed them so effectually from
his knowledge ; while he silently noted the march of skepticism in her nature.
There were dim, puzzling passages of Scripture, which she studied on her
knees; now trying to comprehend them, and now beseeching the Source of
all knowledge to enlighten her. But, as has happened to numberless
342 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
others, there was seemingly no assistance given. The clouds grew denser and
darker, and like the "cry of strong swimmers in their agony," her prayers
had gone up to the Throne of Grace. Sometimes she was tempted to go to
the minister of tLe church, where she sat Sunday after Sunday, and heg him
to explain the mysteries to her. But the pompous austerity of his manners
repelled her whenever she thought of broaching the subject; and gradually
she saw that she must work out her own problems. Thus, from week to week
and month to month, she toiled on, with a slowly dying faith, constantly
clambering over obstacles which seemed to stand between her trust and
revelation. It was no longer study for the sake of erudition ; these riddles
involved all that she prized in Time and Eternity, and she grasped books of
every description with the eagerness of a famishing nature. T7hat dire
chance threw into her hands such works as Emerson's, Oarlyle's and Goethe's?
Like the waves of the clear, sunny sea, they only increased her thirst to
madness. Her burning lips were ever at these fountains ; and in her reck-
less eagerness, she plunged into the gulf of German speculation. Here she
believed that she had indeed found the "true process," and with renewed
zest, continued the work of questioning. At this stage of the conflict, the
pestilential scourge was laid upon the cit^-, and she paused from her meta-
physical toil to close glazed eyes and shroud soulless clay. In the awful hush
of these hours of watching, she looked calmly for some solution, and longed
for the unquestioning faith of early years. But these influences passed with-
out aiding her in the least, and with rekindled ardor she went back to her
false prophets. In addition, ethnology beckoned her on to conclusions
apparently antagonistic to the revealed system, and the stony face of geology
seemed radiant with characters of light, which she might decipher and find
some security in. From Dr. Asbury's extensive collection, she snatched
treatise after treatise. The sages of geology talked of the pre-Adamic eras,
and of man's ending the slowly forged chain, of which the radiata form the
lowest link ; and then she was told that in those pre-Adamic ages, Palaeon-
tologists find no trace whatever of that golden time, when the vast animal
creation lived in harmony, and bloodshed was unknown ; ergo, man's fall in
Eden had no agency in bringing death into the world; ergo, the chapter in
Genesis need puzzle her no more.
Finally, she learned that she was the crowning intelligence in the vast
progression; that she would ultimately become part of Deity. "The long
ascending line, from dead matter to man, liad been a progress Godwards, and
the next advance would unite ci-eation and Creator in one person." With all
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 343
Ler aspirations, she had never dreamed of such a future as was here pro-
mised her. To-night she was closely following that most anomalous of all
guides, "Herr Teufelsdrockh." Urged on by the same "unrest," she was
stumbling along dim, devious paths, while from every side whispers came to
her : " Nature is one : she is your mother, and divine : she is God ! The
* living garment of God.' " Through the "everlasting No," and the " ever-
lasting Yea," she groped her way, darkly, tremblingly, waiting for the day-
star of Truth to dawn ; but at last, when she fancied she saw the first rays
silvering the niglit, and looked up hopefully, it proved one of many ignes-
fatui, which had flashed across her patli, and she saw that it was Goethe, up-
lifted as the prophet of the genuine i-eligion. The book fell from her nerveless
lingers ; she closed her eyes, and groaned. It was all " confusion worse
confounded." She could not for her life have told what she believed, much
less what she did not believe. The landmarks of earlier years were swept
away ; the beacon light of Calvary had sunk below her horizon. A howling
cliaos seemed about to ingulf her. At that moment she would gladly have
sought assistance from her guardian ; but how could she approach him after
their last interview ? The friendly face and cordial kindness of Dr. Asbury
Hashed upon her memory, and she resolved to confide her doubts and diffi-
culties to him, hoping to obtain, from his clear and matured judgment, soma
flew which might enable her to emerge from the labyrinth that involved her.
i^lie knelt and tried to pray. To what did she, on bended knees, send up
passionate supplications? To nature? to heroes? These were the new
deities. She could not pray ; all grew dark ; she pressed her hand to her
tlirobliing brain, striving to clear away the mists. " Sartor " had effectuallj
blindfolded her, and she threw herself down to sleep with a shivering dread,
jw of a young child separated from its mother, and wailing in some starless
desert.
CORKELIA GRAHAM'S DEATH.
One week later, as Bculah was spending her Sabbath evening in her own
apartment, she was summoned to see her friend for the last time. It was
twilight when she reached ifr. Graham's house, and glided noiselessly up
the thicklj -carpeted stairway. The bells were all mufl^led, and a solemn
stillness reigned over the mansion. She left her bonnet and shawl in the
hall, and softly entered the chamber unannounced. Unable to breathe in a
horizontal position, Cornelia was bolstered up in her easy-chair. Iler mother
344 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
8at near her, with her face hid on her husband's bosom. Dr. HartweH
leaned against the mantel, and Eugene stood on the hearth opposite him,
with his head bowed down on his hands. Cornelia drew her breath in quick
gasps, and cold drops glistened on her pallid face. Her sunken eyes wan-
dered over the group, and when Beulah drew near she extended her hands
eagerly, while a shadowy smile passed swiftly over her sharpened features.
"Beulah, come close to me — close." She grasped her hands tightly, and
Beulah knelt at the side of her chair.
" Beulah, in a little while I shall be at rest. You will rejoice to see me
free from pain, won't you ? I have suffered for so many months and years.
But death is about to release me forever. Beulah, is it forever? — is it for-
ever? Am I going down into an eternal sleep, on a marble couch, where
grass and flowers will wave over me, and the s"nn shine down on me ? Yes,
it must be so. "Who has ever waked from this last dreamless slumber ? Abel
was the first to fall asleep, and since then, who has wakened ? Iso one.
Earth is full of j)ale sleepers, and I am soon to join the silent band."
There was a flickering light in her eyes, like the flame of a candle low in
its socket, and her panting breath was painful to listen to.
" Cornelia, they say Jesus of Nazareth slept, and woke again ; if so, you
will "
"Ha, but you don't believe that, Beulah. They say — they say! Yes,
but I never believed them before, and I don't want to believe them now. I
will not believe it. It is too late to tell me that now. Beulah, I shall know
very soon ; the veil of mystery is being lifted. Oh, Beulah, I am glad I am
going ; glad I shall soon have no more sorrow and pain ; but it is all dark,
dark ! You know what I mean. Don't live as I have, believing nothing.
No matter what your creed may be, hold fast, have firm faith in it. It is
because I believe in nothing, that I am so clouded now. Oh, it is stich a
dark, dark, lonely way ! If I had a friend to go with me, I should not shrink
back, but oh, Beulah, I am so solitary ! It seems to me I am going out into
a great starless midnight." She shivered, and her cold fingers clutched
Beulah's convulsively.
" Calm, yourself, Cornelia. If Christianity is true, God Avill see that you
were honest in your skepticism, and judge you leniently. If not, then death
is annihilation, and you have nothing to dread ; you will sink into quiet
oblivion of all your jrriefs."
"Annihilation! then I shall see you all no more! Oh, wh}^ was I ever
created, to love others, and then be torn away forever, and go back to sense-
r
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 345
less dust ? I never have been happy ; I have always had aspirations aftei-
purer, higher enjt)Yinents than earth could aiford ine, and must tliey be lost
in dead clay ? Oh, Beulali, can you give me no comfort but this ? Is this
the sum of all your study, as well as mine ? Ah, it is vain, useless ; man can
find out nothing. We are all blind ; groping our way through mysterious
paths, and now I am going into the last — the great mystery !"
She shook her head, with a bitter smile, and closed her eyes, as if to shut
out some hideous spectre. Dr. Hartwell gave her a spoonful of some power-
ful medicine, and stood watching her face, distorted by the difficulty of
breathing. A long silence ensued, broken only by the sobs of the parents.
Cornelia leaned back, with closed eyes, and now and then her lips moved,
but nothing intelligible escaped them. It was surprising how she seemed to
rally sometimes, and breathe with perfect ease ; then tlie paroxysms would
come on more violent than ever. Beulah knelt on the floor, with lier fore-
head resting on the arm of the chair, and her hands still grasped in the firm
hold of the dying girl. Time seemed to stand still, to watch the issue, for
moments were long as hours to the few friends of the sufferer. Beulah felt
as if her lieart were leaden, and a band of burning iron seemed drawn about
her brow. Was tltis painful parting to be indeed eternal ? Was there no
future home for the dead of this world ? Should the bands of love and
friendship, thus rudel}' severed, be renewed no more ? Was there no land
"where the broken links might be gathered up again ? What did j)hilosophy
say of these grim hours of struggle and separation? N"othing — absolutely
nothing! Was she to see her sister no more? Was a moldering mass of
dust all that remained of the darling dead — the beautiful angel, Lilly, whom
she had so idolized? Oh! was life, then, a great mockery, and the soul,
■with its noble aims and impulses, but a delicate machine of matter? Her
brain was in a wild, maddening whirl ; she could not weep ; her eyes were
dry and burning. Cornelia moved an instant, and murmured, audibly :
" ' For here we have no continuing citj', but seek one to come.' Ah !
what is its name? that 'continuing city!' ivecropolis?" Again slie
remained, for some time, speechless.
Dr. Ilartwell softly wiped away the glistening drops on her brow, and
opening her eyes, she looked up at him intently. It was an imploring
gaze, which mutely said, "Can't you help me?" He leaned ovei-, and
answered it, sadlj' enough :
" Courage, Cornelia ! Tt will very soon be over now. The worst is past,
my friend."
" Yes, I know. There is a chill creeping over me. Where is Eugene?"
346 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
He came and stood near her : his face full of anguish, which could not
vent itself in tears. Her features became convulsed as she looked at him ; a
wailing cry broke from her lips, and extending her arms toward him. she
said, sobbingly :
" Shall I see you no more — no more ? Oh, Eugene, my brother, my pride,
my dearest hope ! whom I have loved better than my own life, are we now
parted forever — forever !"
He laid her head on his bosom, and endeavored to soothe her ; but cling-
ing to him, she said, huskily :
"Eugene, with my last breath I implore you, forsake your intemperate
companions. Shun them^ and their haunts. Let me die, feeling that at least
my dying prayer will save you ! Oh, when I am gone — Avhen I am silent in
the graveyard, remember how the thought of your intemperance tortured
me ! Eemember how I remonstrated, and entreated you not to ruin your-
self! Remember that I loved you above everything on earth; and that, in
my last hour, I prayed you to save yourself! Oh, Eugene, for my sake !
for my sake! quit the wine cup, and leave drunkenness for others more
degraded! Promise me I Where are you? Oh, it is all cold and
dark ! 1 can't see you !-; — -Eugene, promise,. promise ! Eugene !"
Her eyes were riveted on his, and her lips moved for some seconds ; then
the clasping arms gradually relaxed; the gasps ceased. Eugene felt a long
shudder creep over the limbs, a deep, heavy sigh passed her lips, and Corne-
lia Graham's soul was with its God.
Ah ! after twenty-three years of hope and fear, struggling and question-
ing, what an exit ! Eugene lifted the attenuated form, and jdaeed it on the
bed; then threw himself into her vacant chair, and sobbed like a. broken-
hearted child. Mr. Graham took his wife from the room ; and after some
moments. Dr. HartAvell touched the kneeling figure, with the face still
pressed against the chair Eugene now occupied.
" Come, Beulah, she will want you no more."
She lifted a countenance so full of woe, that as he looked at her, tho
moisture gathered in his eyes, and he put his hand tenderly on her head,
saying :
" Come with me, Beulah."
" And tills is death. Oh, my God, save me from such a death !"
She clasped her liands over her eyes, and shivered ; then rising from her
kneeling posture, threw herself on a couch, and buried her face in its cush-
ions. That long niglit of self-communion was never forgotten.
*********
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 347
The day of the funeral was cold, dark and dismal. A January wind
howled through the streets, and occasional drizzling showers enhanced the
gloom. Tlie parlors and sitting-room were draped, and on the marble slab
of one of the tables stood the coffin, covered with a velvet pall. Once
before, Beulah had entered a room similarly shrouded ; and it seemed but
yesterday that she stood beside Lilly's rigid form. She went in alone, and
waited some moments near the coffin, striving to calm the wild tumult of
conflicting sorrovis in her oppressed heart ; then lifted the cover, and looked
on the sleeper. "Wan, Avaxen and silent. No longer the fitful sleep of dis-
ease, nor the refreshing slumber of health, but the still iciness of ruthless
death. The black loeks were curled around the forehead, and the beautiful
hands folded peacefully over the heart that should Ihrcb no more witli th&
anguish of earth. Death had smoothed the brow, and put tlie trembling
mouth at rest, and every feature was in repose. In life she had never looked
so placidly beautiful.
"What availed all her inquiries, and longings, and defiant cries? She
died, no nearer the truth than when she began. She died without hope,
and without knowledge. Only death could unseal the mystery," thoughfe
Beulah, as she looked at the marble face, and recalled the bitterness of
its life-long expression. Persons began to assemble; gradually, the rooms
fdled. Beulah bent down, and kissed the cold lips for' the last time, and
lowering her veil, retired to a dim corner. She was very miserable, but
her eyes were tearless, and she sat, she knew not how long, unconscious
of what passed around her. She heard the stifled sobs of tlie bereaved
parents, as in a painful dream ; and when the solemn silence was broken,
she started, and saw a venerable man, a stranger, standing at tiie liead
of the coffin ; and these words fell upon her ears like a message from
another world.
"I am the resurrection and the life," saith the Lord; "and he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live ; and whosoever
liveth and believeth in me shall never die!"
Cornelia had not believed ; was she utterly lost ? Beulah asked lier-
self this question, and shrank from tlie answer. She did not believe :
would she die as Cornelia died, without comfort? Was there but one
salvation ? When the coffin was borne out, and the procession formed,
she went on mechanically, and found herself seated in a carriage Avith
Mrs. Asbury and her two daughters. She sank back in one corner, and
the long line of carriages, extending for many squares, slowly wound
348 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
through the streets. The wind wailed and sobbed, as if in sympathy, and
the rain drizzled against the window-glass. When the procession reached
the cemetery, it was too wet to think of leaving the carriages, but Beulah
could see the coffin borne from the hearse, and heard the subdued voice
of the minister ; and when the shrouded form of the only child was low-
ered into its final resting-place, she groaned, and hid her face in her
hands, "Should they meet no more?" Hitherto Mrs. Asbury had for-
borne to address her, but now she passed her arm round the shuddering
form, and said, gently :
"My dear Beulah, do not look so hopelessly wretched. In the midst
of life, we are in death ; but God has given a i)romise to cheer us all in
sad scenes like this. St. John was told to Avrite, ' From henceforth,
blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from their
labors.' "
" And do you think she is lost forever, because she did not believe ? Do
you? Can you?" cried Beulah, vehemently.
" Beulah, she had the Bible, which promises eternal life. If she entirely
rejected it, she did so voluntarily and deliberately ; but only God knows the
heart — only her Maker can judge her. I trust that even in the last hour, the
mists rolled from her mind."
Beulah knew better, but said nothing ; it was enough to have witnessed
that darkened soul's last hour on earth. As the carriage stopped at her door,
Jlrs. Asbury said :
" My dear Beulah, stay with me to-night. I think I can help you to find
what you are seeking so earnestly."
Beulah shrank back, and answered :
"No, no. No one can help me ; I must help myself. Some other time I
will come."
The rain fell heavily as she reached her own home, and she went to her
room with a heaviness of heart almost unendurable. She sat down on the
rug before the fire, and threw her arms up over a chair, as she was wont to
do in childhood, and as she remembered that the winter rain now beat piti-
lessly on the grave of one who had never known privation, nor aught of grief
that wealth could shield her from, she moaned bitterly. What lamp had
philosophy hung in the sable chambers of the tomb ? The soul was impotent
to explain its origin — how, then, could it possibly read the riddle of final
destiny ? Psychologists had wrangled for ages over the question of " ideas."
"Were infants born with or without them? Did ideas arise or develop them-
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 349
selves independently of experience? The affirmation or denial of this propo-
sition alone distinguished the numerous schools, which had so long wrestled
with psychology ; and if this were insolvable, how could human intellect
question further ? Could it bridge the gulf of Death, and explore the shores
of Eternity?
TRUTH AT LAST TPJUMPHAiJ^T.
She had long before rejected a "revealed code " as unnecessary; the nest
step was to decipher nature's symbols, and thus grasp God's hidden laws;
but here the old trouble arose ; how far was " individualism " allowable and
safe? To reconcile the theories of rationalism, she felt, was indeed a hercu-
lean task, and she groped on in deeper night. ISTow and then, her horizon
was bestarred, and, in her delight, she shouted Eureka ! But when the
telescope of her infallible reason was brought to bear upon the coldly glitter-
ing points, they flickered and went out. More than once, a flaming comet,
of German manufacture, trailed in glory athwart her dazzled vision ; but closo
observation resolved the gilded nebula, and the nucleus mocked her. Doubt
engendered doubt ; the death of one difficulty was the instant birth of another.
"Wave after wave of skepticism surged over her soul, until the image of a
great personal God was swept from its altar. But atheism never yet
usurped the sovereignty of the human mind ; in all ages, moldering vestiges
of protean deism confront the giant spectre, and every nation under heaven
has reared its fane to the "unknown God." Beulah had striven to
enthrone in her desecrated soul, the huge, dim, shapeless phantom of pan-
theism, and had turned eagerly to the system of Spinoza. The heroic gran-
deur of the man's life and character had strangely fascinated her ; but now
that idol of a " substance, whose two infinite attributes were extension and
thought." mocked her ; and she hurled it from its pedestal, and looked back
wistfully to the pure faith of her childhood. A Godless world ; a Godless
woman. She took up the lamp, and retired to her own room. On all sides
booke greeted her ; here was the varied lore of dead centuries ; here she had
held communion with the great souls entombed in these dusty pages. Here,
wrestling alone with those grim puzzles, she had read out the vexed and vex-
ing questions, in this debating club of the moldering dead, and endeavored to
make them solve them. These well-worn volumes, with close " marginalias,"
echoed her inqiiiries, but answered them not to her satisfaction. "Was her
life to be thus passed in feverish toil, and ended as by a leap out into a black
350 VrOilE^f OF THE SOUTH.
slioreless abyss ? Like a spent cliild, she threw her arms on the mantel-piece,
and wept uncontrollably, murmuring ;
"Oh, better die now, than live in perpetual strugglings ! What is life
•worth without peace of mind, without hope; and what hope have I?
Diamonded webs of sophistry can no longer entangle ; like Noah's dove, my
soul has fluttered among them, striving in vain for a sure hold to perch upon ;
but, unlike it, I have no ark to flee to. Weary and almost hopeless, I would
fain believe that this world is indeed as a deluge, and in it there is no ark of
refuge but the Eible. It is true, I did not see this soul's ark constructed ; I
know nothing of the machinery employed; and, no more than Noah's dove,
can I explore and fully understand its secret chambers ; jet, all untutored, the
exhausted bird sought safety in the incomprehensible, and was saved. As to
the mysteries of revclaticn and inspiration, why, I meet mysteries, turn
which way I wilL Man, earth, time, eternity, God, are all inscrutable mys-
teries. My own soul is a mystery even unto myself, and so long as I am
impotent to fathom its depths, liow shall I hope to unfold the secrets of the
universe ?" .
She had rejected Christian theism, because she could not understand how
God had created the universe out of nothilig. True, "with God all things
are possible," but she could not understand this creation out of nothing, and
therefore would not believe it. Yet (oh, inconsistency of human reasoning !)
she had believed that the universe created laws: that matter gradually
created mind. Tliis was the inevitable result of pantheism, for according to
geology, there was a primeval period, when neither vegetable nor animal
life existed; when the earth was a huge mass of inorganic matter. Of two
incomprehensibilities, which was the most plausible ? To-night the question
recurred to her mind with irresistible force, and as her eyes wandered over
the volumes she had so long consulted, she exclaimed :
" Oh, philosophy ! thou hast mocked my hungry soul ; thy gilded fruits
have crumbled to ashes in my grasp. In lieu of the holy faith of my girl-
hood, thou hast given me but dim, doubtful conjecture, cold, metaphysical
abstractions, intangible shadows, that flit along my path, and lure me on to
deeper morasses. Oh, what is the shadow of death, in comparison with the
starless night which lias fallen upon me, even in the morning of my life ! My
God, save mc! Give me light: of myself I can know nothing !"
Her proud intellect was humbled, and falling on her knees, for the first
time in many montlis, a sobbing prayer went up to the throne of the living
God ; wliilc the vast clockwork of stars looked in on a pale b«"'w and lips,
where heavy drops of moisture glistened.
ACGUSTA J. EVANS. 351
A WTi:S'S WYiNE MINISTRY.
Ite»('cr, /jr.HC'Tia^o is not the end of life ; it is but the beginning of a new
cctTse of (luties ; but I cannot now follow Bealali. Henceforth her history is
bound up with another's. To save her husband from his unbelief, is the
labor of future years. She had learned, to sutfer, and to bear patiently ;
and, though her path looks sunny, and her heart throbs with happy
hopes, this one shadow lurks over her home, and dims lier joys. "Weeks
and months glided swiftly on. Dr. Ilartwell's fac3 lost its stern rigidity,
and his smile became constantly genial. His wife was his idol ; day 1 y
day, hiis love for her seemed more completely to revolutionize his nature.
Ilis cynicism melted insensibly away ; his lips forgot their iron compres-
sion; now and then, his long-forgotten laugh rang throngii the house.
Beulah was conscious of the power she wielded, and trembled lest sl:e
failed to employ it properly. One Sabbath afternoon, she sat in her room,
witli her cheek on her hand, absorbed in earnest thought. Iler little Bible
lay on her lap, and she was pondering the text she had heard that morn-
ing. Charon came and nestled his huge head against her. Presently she
beard the quick tramp of hoofs and whir of wheels ; and soon after, her
husband entered and sat down beside her.
" What are you thinking of?" said he, passing liis hand over her head,
carelessly.
" Thinking of my life — of tlie bygone years of struggle."
"They are' past, and can trouble you no more. ' Let the dead past bury
its dead!' "
"No, my past can never die. I ponder it often, and it does nic good;
strengthens me, by keeping me humble. I was just thinking of tlie dreary,
desolate days and nights I passed, searching for a true philosophy, and going
farther astray with every efiort. I was so proud of my intellect ; put so
much faith in my own powers; it was no wonder I was sc/ benighted."
" Where is your old worship of genius?" asked her husband, watching hex
curiously.
"I have not lost it all. I hope I never shall. Iluman genius h.:s accom-
plished a vast deal of man's temporal existence. The physical sciences I'as'o
been wheeled forward in the march of mind, and man's eartldy path gen;mod
with all that a merely sensual nature could desire. But looking aside frcm
these channels, Avhat has it effected for philosophy, that great burden, whlclt
352 WOMEN OF THE SOUTK.
9
constantly recalls the fabled labors of Sisypbus and tlie Danaides ? Since the
rising of Bethlehem's star in the cloudy sky of polytheism, what has human
genius discovered of God, eternity, destiny? Metaphysicians build gorgeous
cloud palaces, but the soul cannot dwell in their cold, misty, atmosphere.
Antiquarians wrangle and write ; Egypt's moldering monuments are raked
from their desert graves, and made the theme of scientific debate ; but has
all this learned disputation contributed one iota to clear the thorny way of
strict morality? Put the Bible out of sight, and how much will human
intellect discover concerning our origin — our ultimate destiny? In the
morning of time, sages handled these vital questions, and died, not one step
nearer the truth than when they began. Now, our philosophers struggle,
earnestly and honestly, to make plain the same inscrutable mysteries. Yes,
blot out the record of Moses, and we would grope in starless niglit ; for not-
withstanding the many priceless blessings it has discovered for man, the torch
of science will never pierce and illumine the recesses over which Almighty
God has hung his veil. Here we see, indeed, as ' through a glass, darkly.'
Yet I believe the day is already dawning, when scientific data Avill not only
cease to be antagonistic to scriptural accounts, but will deepen the impress
of Divinity on the pages of holy writ ; when ' the torch shall be taken out of
the hands of the. infidel, and set to burn in the temple of the liying God;
when Science and Religion shall link hands. I revere the lonely thinkers
to whom the world is indebted for its great inventions. I honor the tireless
laborers who toil in laboratories; who sweep midnight skies in search of new
worlds ; who upheave primeval rocks, hunting for footsteps of Deity ; and I
believe that every scientific fact will ultimately prove but another lamp,
planted along the path which leads to the knowledge of Jehovah ! Ah ! it is
indeed peculiarly the duty of Christians, ' to watch with reverence and joy
the unveiling of the august brow of ITature, by the hand of Science ; and to
be ready to call mankind to a worship ever new !' Human thought subserves
many useful, nay, noble ends ; the Creator gave it, as a powerful instrument
to improve man's temporal condition ; but oh, sir, I speak of what I know,
when I say : alas, for that soul who forsakes the divine ark, and embarks on
the gilded toys of man's invention, hoping to breast the billows of life, and be
anchored safely in the harbor of eternal rest ! The heathens, ' having no law,
are a law unto themselves,' but to such as deliberately reject the given light,
only bitter darkness remains. I know it ; for I, too, once groped, wailing for
help."
"Your religion is full of mystery," said her husband, gravely.
AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 353
" Yes, of divine mystery. Truly, ' a God comprehended is no God at all!*
Christianity is clear, as to rules of life and duty. There is no mysterj left
about the directions to man ; yet there is a divine mystery infolding it^
which tells of its divine origin, and promises a fuller revelation when man is
fitted to receive it. If it were not so, we would call it man's invention.
You turn from Revelation, because it contains some things you cannot com-
prehend ; yet you plunge into deeper, darker mystery, when you embrace the
theory of an eternal, self-existing universe, having no intelligent creator, yet
constantly creating intelligent beings. Sir, can you understand how matter
creates mind?"
She had laid her Bible on his knee ; her folded hands rested upon it, and
her grey eyes, clear and earnest, looked up reverently into her husband's
noble face. His soft hands wandered over her head, and he seemed ponder-
ing her words.
May God aid the wife in her holy work of love.
JANE T. H. CROSS.
CoMMi'ND US to the true heart that glows in a true woman ^s
letter, though it be in a strange hand, and address us in formal
phrase, " dear madam," and prove, after all, onlj a letter of
biographical data. There is a clear, resonant ring in it — a per-
tinent simplicitj — a dignity — a reticence — an unconscious
pathos as the pen glides here and there over a life-point M'ith a
nerve in it. We are put at once in full sympathy with the
woman and writer. Such a letter we have received from the
subject of this sketch. She says, modestly :
"I shall be glad to further your object in any way that I
can. I confess, however, with no aliected humility, that I do
not consider my writings of sufficient importance, or popularity,
to entitle me to take rank among literary people. My success
lias been, chiefly — where, indeed, the heart ought most to covet
it — among children and sorroAvful women ; for it is a pleasant
task to water violets and lilies, but not one in which the busy,
babbling, showy world feels much concern."
" Children and sorrowful Avomen !" as if to appeal success-
fully to these were not a popularify of the purest and rarest
type. But the little books which Mrs. Cross has given to the
world arc not to be limited even to this desirable sphere. They
are the evident product of intellect and culture, full of vigor, ari
well as the most delicate grace and j-jerception. Her portraiture
*liows the graphic and true lines of a master, and her works are
«54
JANE T. II. CROSS. 355
all touched with the issues of a refined, womanly, and religious
spirit.
The maiden name of Mrs. Cross was Jane Tandy Chinn.
She is the daughter of Judge Chinn, of Harrodsburg, Kentucky,
in which place she was born in 181Y. She was educated at
Shelby ville, Kentucky, at the boarding-school of Mrs. Tevis —
an establishment whicli has been a blessing to all the Missifl-
fiippi valley.
At the age of eighteen, she married James P. Hardin, son
of lion. Ben Hardin, of Kentucky. In 1841, she accompanied
her husband to Cuba for his health ; but in the autumn of 1842,
his prospects for a brilliant career were cut off' by death. Thus, ,
at the age of twenty-five, our author was left a widow with
three children.
In 1 848, she was married, a second time, to Rev. Dr. CrosSj
of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. " Since that time,"
she says, " my life has been as roving as that of an Arab."
The two years following this union were spent in Kentucky.
Dr. Cross was then stationed two years at Nashville, Tennessee,
five months at Huntsville, Alabama, and four years at Charles*
ton. South Carolina. They then travelled in Europe a year,
enjoying all that came in their way with a zest and entireness
which are most happily set forth in a volume recently given to
the world by Dr. Cross. Some extracts from this work, which
have come under our notice, would seem to prove the author a
man of fine descriptive and poetic powers, and every way
worthy of his accomplished wife.
In 1858, they returned to South Carolina, and were engaged
m teaching, at Spartanburg, for eighteen months. In 1859,,
they removed to San Antonio, Texas, where they now reside, ,
It is easy to see that a life like this must abound in varied
and interesting incident, but Mrs. Cross, with an off-hand,
modest grace, thus waives the detail : . •
g56 Vv^OMEN OF TUE SOUXa.
" I am aware tliat I have made the recital of facts as bare as
possible — not but that ' thereby liangs a tale ;' yet I remember
that when Mazcppa assures Charles XII. that his story is ' a
long and sad one,' the king begs him not to recite it.''''
Mrs. Cross lias been, for some years, an occasional contri-
butor of prose and poetry to the religious journals of the South,
^lie has written a series of stories for children, which were col-
lected and edited by Dr. Summers, and published in four small
volumes, called, most appropriately, " Heart Blossoms," " Way-
side Flowerets," " Bible Gleanings," and " Drift-wood."
During her tour through Europe, she corresponded in a
pleasant, descriptive vein, with the " Christian Advocate," and
the " Courier," of Charleston. She has also contributed for
jears to the " Home Circle," of Kashville, Tenn. " And this,"
she says, " is the head and front of my offending."
SCARLET GERANIUMS.
Some days seem made expre&sly for joy. In their very commencement,
vrhen Aurora lifts the rosy curtains, and reveals the morning chamher of the
«m, inlaid with jjearl, the gracious irxnarch dips to the threshold, and
gives her such a hearty nod of approbation, that a shower of light falls from
Lis curls upon the awaking earth. The earth herself is clothed in green ;
for, like the milk-maid in the fable, that color " becomes her best." Still, a3
flie royal personage, gathering his golden robes about him, advances in his
walk through the blue fields of heaven, he looks do^vn smiling to our little
world, and it smiles back to him, as a child might smile into the face of its
&ther.
These are the days that are made for joy. Then care goes skulking off
into dark closets and corners ; and grief wraps itself up in the drawers that
contain the clothes of dead people ; and despair lies on the highway, fainting
beneath the warm rays, and being suflFocated by the fragrance of flowers;
and patient sorrow sits, looking like one of those beautiful paintings of India-
i^ that are touched with gold.
S was Just such a day as this that I sat within a room, and gazed at the
JANE T. H. CROSS. 357
gas fixtures in the centre, and at the white glass bell, with its blue rim that.
hung above, a crystal morning-glory, bringing to mind the green fields and
flowery hedges ; and then I looked upon a gilt-lVamed mirror that flashed
above the marble mantel-piece ; and then I looked at the embnjidored muslin
curtain, that softened the light as it came tlirougli the window, and at the
blue hangings above. And when I had tired of these, my eyes rested upofl
the pure white marble table that stood before me. I felt that it was very
pleasant, even in those little household matters, to be .'•urrounded by beauti-
ful objects; and that it would be a very, re?*?/" great privation if all those
objects were shut out forever, and the windows of the soul darkened.
Milton says, after he became blind, "God chastises me with two rods,
and one of them is a club." It must be hard to bear this blindness, and
deafness is but little inferior to it. Just imagine every sound in the world
to cease suddenly — the ticking of the clock, the hum of the city, the carol-
ling of the birds, tlie gurgling of the brook, the melodious moaning of tha
ocean, the voices of children and of dear friends ! It makes one shudder,
and feel as if he were drawing his shroud around him, and stepping down
into his grave.
Such thoughts were naturally suggested by the fact, that on the other
side of the marble table sat a dark-eyed, pleasant-looking gentleman,
performing operations for diseases of the eyes and ears. lie had been
thus engage<l from the time I had entered the room. The patient's chair was
never empty. A few moments sufficed for each ; but the place was no
sooner vacated by one, than it was occupied by another. Perhaps this
day, expressly made for joy, gave them hopes of a happy issue ; for still
the sun kept gazing down through the sliaded window, smiling, and seem-
ing to say, " Xow something good is going to happen."
Presently the operator made a signal, and, as a gentleman approached
the chair, he remarked : " This gentleman has been deaf and dumb from
Lis birth." He then commenced using his little glass tubes, mops, air-
pnmps, etc., as quietly and composedly as if he were merely going to
shave the man. After a few moments, he said, " I am now going to try
if he can hear. I wish you to observe his eye. If he hears, you wiU
perceive it by the expression of his eyes." He then took a small India-
rubber bag, with a brass mouth-piece, and, jjutting it to the patient's ear,
made a noise such as is sometimes made by a child's toy.
And now I am disposed to lay down my pen, for I never can convey
to you an idea of the face that presented itself before us. Tlie flash of
358 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
tatelligence, tlie joy, surprise, and inquiry were inimitable and indescrir
bable. It brought to my mind the exclamation of N". P. Willis's little
girl :
" Father, dear father, God has made a star!"
and it appeared to me that God had just then made a soul; and that this
soul, still glowing with the light of lieaven, warm from the hand of his
Creator, was flashing through the eyes, and playing like summer lightning
about the mouth. At every repetition of the noise, the face beamed anew.
Every countenance in the room threw back the irradiating joy. Glad
hands were clapped, and " Is it not beautiful ? Oh ! is it not beautiful ?"
was repeated again and again. My God ! let me henceforth be more grate-
ful for this delightful sense of hearing. Was the tone of that poor squeak-
ing India-rubber bag such entrancing music to him who had never heard
a sound before? Then, let me listen to the music world around me, and
let the various notes coming from all objects melt into a blissful melody of
praise to God !
And that was the first time ho had ever heard ! My mind ran forward
to the time when the dull ear of death shall be awakened by the liarmony of
lieaven, and I knew the sound would be still stranger and more entrancing
than those earthly sounds to the deaf nmte. In confirmation of this, I could
but think of poor Cowper dying with " unutterable despair " upon his lips,
and yet with a face, when those lips had grown silent, suddenly beaming
with inexpressible joy and surprise. Yes, truly ! some days are made for
joy. May such, dear reader, be your day of death, and mine.
LA PETITE FEE.
When I was but a girl, numbering not more than a dozen summers,
I was taken from the tender surroundings of home, and sent to a boarding-
school. Tliere I was an utter stranger. Teachers and pupils were unknown
to me. It seemed to mo I met no glance of sympathy. The place, Avhich
Las since become the warm nest of my atfections, appeared to me then
cold and strange.
Shy and sensitive, I drew off from the girls around me, and Avandered
into the yard. A clothes-line was stretched from ti-ec to tree. I caught tliat
with my hands, and leaning my head against it, stood, looking wistfully
JANE T. n. CROSS. 359
• through, the crevices of the high plank fence. There I stood, a lone,
.awkward little stranger. I know not whether I thought of Anything,
except that I knew nobody. Just then, a nicck-eycd girl, smaller than
myself, with very soft brown hair, approached nic. A few kind words
came bubbling up from the pure fountain of the heart, and ran over tha
ruby brim of her lips. I loved her. Her soul addressed me, and frona
that hour we were no longer strangers.
Many bright girls have entered those halls of learning — many lovely
and accomplished women have come thence ; but none brighter or lovelier
than my little friend of the clothes-line. "Wliatever of knowledge was set
before her, was seized by her mind with delight. She was the wit of
our room; and many a contest have I had with her, and many a timo
been foiled, while our mutual friend and music-teacher, herself a wit of
the first order, sat by, laughing and cheering us on.
Her temper, too, was like the little island of Santa-Cruz, perpetual
blossom and sunshine. So admirably were her gifts of mind tempered by
•t!ie graces of her heart, that none of us thought of being jealous, but all
loved "Za petite fee" as we often called her.
At length our school-days were ended — those sweet ATay-tlaya, when
tlie halcyon built her nest upon the waves' of life, and snowy sails were
filled with odorous breezes. Ah, those were the days when a French
dialogue had more glory than the most gorgeous gala-day at Victoria*3
court.
But those sv.-eet days passed away — away — yet our friendship passed
not. "We grew into womanhood. Still every evening we flew to meet
each other with the eagerness of children, and hand in hand wo traversed
•the shady walks' of my native village.
Again the kaleidoscope of 11 To was changed; but again a kind Provi-
dence threw us together. She became the wife of a minister of th%
Gospel — of whom else could she have been the wife? lie was my pastor;
and she my pastor's wife — the dear little fairy.
And then she was a mother, and held in her arras her first-born, and
hung enraptured on its smiles. She had never known any sorrow — never!
Trained by kind, judicious, and religious parents, married to a gentle^
tender husband, she had ever been so shielded, that the rough winds of
adversity could not reach her. But as she held her babe in her arms, and tho
mother''s soul revelled in all those blissful emotions that only a mother's son!
can know, God said: "Give it to me!" and — she gave it to him! SIio
SCO WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
reached forth no rebellious arms to snatch back her receding child : she sent
ap no murmuring cry. She gave it to him ! and meekly folded her hands
upon the heart from which the life-blood was oozing.
I shall never forget it — the day she came to spend with me in the country,
when her little one was gone. The pale face is still before me, and the
mourning garb, as she walked with me among the shrubbery, and plucked tho
rose-buds and tried to talk cheerfully, and to manifest an interest in tho
things about her ; and sweetly she spoke of the love of God.
I have read sermons on resignation, and I have listened to them from the
lips of the most eloquent preachers, and the waves of time have washed out
in part or entirely the impression; but a sermon that can never be washed
out, an impression that can never be erased, a lesson in resignation that can
never be forgotten, is the memory of that pale woman, amid the rose-bushes
— the countenance so filled with mingled anguish and submission. Such, oh,
my God, are the sermons preached by thy true children — sermons which
shall tell in Eternity !
And now, when my soul chafes at tho cords that bind it, or frets at the
control of circumstances, or is tempted foolishly to murmur at the good pro-
vidence of God, suddenly a grove surrounds me, and lilacs spring up, with
blushing, pendent blossoms, and rose-bushes with bursting buds, and from
out the blooming roses arises the sweet face of my friend, and it says to my
troubled heart, "Peace, be still!"
THE MAGIC RING.
I have in my possession a ring. It looks much like other rings, wrought
ef gold plainly, and, instead of a sparkling gem, containing what is- worth a
great deal more to me — a single jjlait of hair.
Yet there is something very strange about tliis ring. Let me whisper to
yon: it is a magic ring, and shows me such beautiful things! It would make
your very heart dance like an Easter sun to see them. It was but a few
evenings since that I sat at an open win<lo^\'. Tlie wind was passing over
the fields of ripened grain, converting it into llowing waves of gold. Tho
senses were bathed in the odors of new mown hay. The hard-working bee
was just crawling into his hive, weiglied down Avith wax — tlie gathering of
the day. Tho whole western sky was a Hood of rosy light; and while I gazed
at it, I wondered if heaven could be fairer.
\
JANE T. H. CROSS. 361
Presently my eyo fell, and rested upon the ring. It did not disturb the
Bweet thoughts that nature had poured into my heart. Tliere lay, inclosed
in the circlet of gold, that little lock of auburn hair. It was shorn from the
head of my earliest friend and playmate — dear "Mary."
But, as I continued to look, how was I surprised to see the plait untwist-
ing, and forming itself into tiny ringlets like curling sunbeams! But it did
not stop there. When the hair all hung in clustering bundles, I saw beneath
a faint mist, that after awhile began to assume, very indistinctly, the form
of human features, and at last tbere flashed out two great brown eyes, as
you have seen two stars burst through the evening sky ; and then came the
white brow, and the nose, and laughing mouth, full of glittering teeth. Oh,
was it not beautiful? A face like the Italian paintings of Beatrice Cenci —
80 firm, so brave, yet so lovel3^ Truthfulness was written on every line.
After the face, the whole form appeared ; and it was a little girl, and she
was going to school, with her basket, and her dinner,' and her satchel of
hooks ; and my spirit could discern what the little chatterer was saying,
though no mortal ear save mine could hear a sound : nor mine unless my
eye was fixed upon the magic ring. She sang, she laughed, she leaped over
every object that came in her way.
Tiiough it was ripe summer around me, in the ring it was but tlie spring-
tide ; and the bursting roses were not gayer than the child that was jdaying
among them. Soon I saw her pass under the cherry-trees, and come to tho
white school-house. It was still play-time, and the scholars all gathered
around her, and began to speak eagerly of their May-day, for it was fast
coming on, and she would be their May-queen, for she was not yet chosen.
But the teacher was seen coming along the gravel-walk, and her brow was
very stern. They saw that something had displeased her: so the children
all walked into the school-room, and sat upon their benches quite mute and
still.
As soon as the school was opened, she called little Mary to her, and
spoke to her angrily. I could not exactly hear what she said, for tho
ring does not give out distinctly tones of anger; but I gathered that tho
child had repeated something imprudently, and the teacher was urging her
to say who had told her, that the author might be punished. At tho first
words of rebuke the little girl's face was Unshed as a crimson rose, and tho
tears flashed over it in big drops of summer rain; but when the teacher
continni'd to insist on her giving the name of her informer, she ceased to
weep, and looking calmly up, she replied, "I will not tell, madam." Then I
362 WOMEN OF THE SOUTn.
heard the teacher say something about "a willfal falsehood;" and she led the
little girl along, who went verv quietly, till they came to an "upstairs"
room, away from the school. Into this room Mary was put, and the door
was shut and locked, and she was left quite alone.
At first she wept ; but after a few moments she threw her check apron
up over her face, and burst into a laugh, and murmured to herself, "Well,
I don't care. It is not false : it is true, for Sis told me so. But Sis is sick
to-day, and cannot come to school ; so she will not know it, and I shall not
tell, and they cannot punish Aer."
Then she crept to the window, and, climbing upon a stool, she looked
at the white blossoms on the tops of the cherry-trees, and listened to a
red-bird as it kept singing, "Sweet, O sweet, 0 sweet, 0 sweet I" and she
wished they would come and let her out. At last her head dropped upon
the window-sill, her snowy eyelids closed, and the last tear-drop fell, and
lay glittering upon her cheek. She was asleep. Iler face grew bright with
smiles; and I knew that the angels were talking to her, and telling her
strange stories of the far-off' land,
A long time she had thus lain and slept, and smiled to listen to the angels,
when she was aroused by a message from the teacher. She returned to the
school-room, where she found her sister, who had recovered from her indis-
position, and had come to school. Finding Mary absent, she inquired the
cause ; and when she had learned it, at once avowed the truth. Mary's
teacher was then very sorry, and sent for her ; and I heard her say to the
scholars: "This noble little girl would not tell a falsehood, but preferred
being punished herself to having her sister punished. IIow shall she be
rewarded?" And their voices, which sounded in the magic ring as loud as
the noise of the humming-bird, shouted, " She is our Queen of May ! Our
Queen of May!"
Then came the May-day and the May-pole, and the basket of roses, and
festoons of flowers, and the pattering of busy, happy feet; and Mary walked
into the midst of her companions — their queen — in a white muslin dress, and
a garland around her liead, composed of buds cntwisted with green leaves
and white roses, half bursting. But when at last they reached the bower,
and the little girls began to sing a song of welcome around her, my heart
overflowed, tears of joy blinded my eyes, and before I knew it, I exclaimed,
" Dear Mary ! dear sister of my heart !" The charm was broken, the vision
vanished ; and wlien I wiped away the tears, that I might see, nothing
remained but the simple plait of auburn hair.
JANE T. n. CROSS. 36^
THE MAN-ANGEL.
The heart-blossom that I pluck this evening, to iveave into jonr littla
garland, is a very sweet one — a pale floweret of memory that olten opens
and sheds its fragrance around me in the night-time. It is my recollec-
tion of an angel that I once knew^. Now I see your eyes begin to twinkle,
and a smile play aronnd yonr rose-bud lips ; for you do not believe that
I ever indeed knew an angel, and think that I intend to "make up" a
story only to amuse you ; but I am serious : I once knew an angel, and
used to go see him, and sometimes he would come to see me.
How do you suppose he looked? Do you think his long sunny curls
fell over shoulders as fair as moonlight ; that his delicate feet were liko
mother of pearl ; and that his wings rustled softly as he folded them
together, as the leaves of the aspen do; that his words flowed forth a
perpetual music— an unceasing song of joy ; and that he made his homo
in some bright star, such as Sirius, to which he would float off in tho
evening, looking, in the distance, like a silvery cloud amid the blue air?
You are all wrong. He was none of that. It is true he had a lovely-
face, because it was full of love for everything ; and his lips were beauti-
ful, because they spoke comfort to everybody ; and his eye was full of
light, which it had drawn from heaven, and which it had shed upon
earth ; but when I knew him his hair was white, for the sorrows of
many years had bleached it; and his feet were encased in stout leather
shoes, which were covered with dust in travelling from house to house
on his errands of charity ; and his clothes were very plain, for the money
which would have bought him finer was given to clothe the naked.
His house was a humble one — a long, low, brick dwelling, that had
three rooms. One of these was his school-room ; for he spent many years
among those dear little beings who arc the only things in all our world
of which Christ has said — " Of such is the kingdom of heaven."
In his room you would find a bed and a table, a cupboard, and a few
chairs. If there were other pieces of furniture, they were usually lent to
others, who perhaps may not have needed thpm so much. Upon the wall
hung a few pictures of his friends. One was a miniature of Thomas
Jefferson, given by the hand of the President himself to tliis Man- Angel;
and I have often thought that tho great author of the Declaration of Inde-
pendence iniglit veil his face before this — his early friend.
3Gi WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
In the windows of his room were sweet and blushing verbenas, and
"lady's ear-di-ops," ani blowing roses; and upon tlie table, under the
window, lay the old Bible. This was his casket of jewels, and hence he
drew the ornaments that made liim so glorious.
How often in this room have I looked at the dear old man and his
gentle wife, while their two grandchildren played about the door ! and I
have tried to think of somebody in history or in romance to whom I could
compare him. Sometimes I have thought of the Yicar of "Wakefield, but
the Vicar was not so pious, and I have said to myself, " Xo, he is a
Man- Angel ;" and I have felt there was something awful in the presence
of such sublime virtue.
On one occasion, after a severe illness, I heard him say, " Death looked
me in the face, and I thank God, I could look him in the face." Think
of that ! To be able to look death in the face ! and with that serene, high
look ! Was it not beautiful ?
I might tell you many stories that would interest you, and make you love
this being, and make you love virtue more. I could tell you how often,
when I have been v/eary and dispirited, he has come, and, sitting quietly
beside me, has spoken to me like a messenge:- from heaven, so encouragingly
and kindly, that he lias left my heart gladdened, as he has gone forth on his
mission to pour the bright waters of consolation on some other drooping
head. He was an apostle, baptizing every heart with joy.
I had not known him long, when a dreadful sickness swept through our
town. Many of the people lied in terror — many remained trembling every
hour, lest death should enter their dwellings. Then might be seen at all
times, this Man- Angel — "unhasting, unresting" — making his rounds amid
sickness, and suffering, and death. The perverse patient who refused to take
medicine from all others, received the bitter draught from his hand. "When
the ear heard him, it blessed him ; and when the eyes saw him, it gave wit-
ness unto him."
It seems but yesterday that he was here " with us, but not of us." At
last, one sad morning, it was said, " lie also is ill ;" and every physician in
the place was around his bed, and his lowly dwelling was crowded with
those that loved him ; and every one felt it a privilege to be permitted to
hand him a drink of water, or to adjust his pillow, or to Avipe the cold sweat
from his brow. There the rich and the poor met together to do him honor,
and they tried very hard to save liim ; bat he said, " Xay, if it be God's
will, I would rather die." And one would not wonder at this ; for it was
JAXK T. H. CROSS. 365
natural that he should not -wisli to stay with its, because he T^as not like u^ ;
but he AvanteJ to go where his Fatlier was, and where his brother ■ angels
were, and where his fortune was, that he had " sent before him in the shape
of alms." "Was he not right ?
I looked on the face of the dying saint ; and my soul kept praying silently
to God, that the mantle of this Elijah might fall upon me ; but oh, I am not
like him !
They dressed him in a suit of clothes which the ladies of the town had
given him, and which he would not wear while he lived, because he would
wear nothing he had not paid for himself, so independent was he ; and
then they spread a white sheet over him ; and when the people >ver6
gone, and the house was hushed, I reverently turned down the shet-c and
gazed on the face of death. Oh, I have seen most beautiful things ! beautiful
painting, and beautiful sculpture I I have gazed upon the face of a lovely
woman, until my heart has " reeled with its fullness." In nature ancl in art
I have seen much that is a delight to look upon. But never, never^ have I
seen anything more solemnly beautiful than the dead face of that *' Man-
Angel."
SYPvIKGA.
" Oh ! who 13 there amonj us In whom childliood is not a thousand times awakened by mnsio?
And she speaks to him, and asks liim, 'Have not the rose-buds yet opened that I gave thee?'
* Ah, yea, indeed, they have opened, but they were white roses.' " — Jean Paul.
Once when it was early morning, in a meadow broad and green,
Sat I by a singing streamlet, sat I gazing on its sheen —
Gazing, too, upon the shadows of the broad leaved sycamore,
While they danced upon the waters, as upon a crystal floor.
Fleecy clouds above me floated, floated slowly on the air :
Soft, subduing strains of music chased away the bosom's care.
O'er the moadow camo a maiden tripping thro'.igh the pearly dew,
And tha drops wore thickly glittering on her foot without a shoe :
O'er her shoulders hung her tresses, long, and fjiir, and golden hung —
Then she oped her lips, and sweetly spoke the little maiden's tongue ;
366 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
"ITere my apron full of blossoms — blossoms in tbe bud I bring,
Take, and keep them, till they open wide and blushing in the spring."
I have kept the buds, fair maiden, waterM them at morn and night ;
And the buds have open'd, maiden, iut the roses all are wMtey
THE RILL,
Adown a sunny mountain side,
A streamlet rippled gay and proud;
And, fast and faster as it hied,
It smiled, and sang, and laugh'd aloud.
For 'raid the rocks and woods, its home
Was in that mountain hid from sight ;
And it had come abroad to roam,
And revel in the golden light.
*' Now, Ocean, ho ! now. Ocean, ho !"
It sang Avith many a merry wink :■
" Dark home, unloved, from thee, I go,
Into the ocean's lap to. sink 1"
But, lo ! a precipice so deep,
It makes the little wavelets whirl!
It pauses — noAV it takes the leap,
And fulls below in showers of pearl !
Then on it goes, o'er many a mile.
Nor seeks the sun, nor fears the cloud ;
And "Ocean, ho!" it cries the Avhile,
" Old Ocean, ho!" and laughs aloud.
Kor valleys green, nor smiling meads,
Can turn it from its steady way ;
Nor flowrets fair, nor flaunting weeds,
Can tempt it in its course to stay.
JANE T II. CROSS. 367
And now it rolls a river -vride,
While forests rear themselves around ;
And goodly cities stand beside
The ever-smiling, ocean-bound.
Nor rolling car, nor rattling dray,
Nor puffing boat, the current heeds ;
But onward still it wends its way,
Still onward on the ocean speeds.
As thus unheeding flows the rill,
To mingle with the boundless sea,
The earnest spirit upward still
Directs its course, 0 God, to thee !
SONNET.
(with a withered leaf.)
This that I send — this simple withered leaf,
Might float unnoted on the wind or tide,
Or by the careless foot be thrust aside,
Nor to the heart bring aught of joy or grief.
It knew no brighter birth than other plants,
To no more verdant coloring was bom ;
Indeed, it might, perchance, have been the scorn
Of sopie gay flower that on the light breeze flaunts.
Wherefore is then the offering? Where the charm.
That makes tliis trifling leaf a treasured thing?
The atmosphere that nursed it heard Mm sing.
Whose tuneful notes the world were loth to lose :
In Petrarch's haunts it grew — shield it from harm !
A sad and sweet memento, plucked beside Vaucluse '.
MAKY S. B. DANA SHINDLER.
Music is a fine immortalizer of poetrj. A song that comes
to us, pulsing not only with faultless rhythm and true sentiment,
but with " concord of sweet sounds," we never forget. All
through life the worded strain sings on in our hearts ; we doubt,
indeed, if it be lost when the new life begins. Witness to this
the dear old melodies, " Sweet Home," " I would not Live
Alway," " The Old Oaken Bucket," " Woodman Spare that
Tree," and a whole host of simple ballads, whicli our hearts
could not unlearn if they would. It seems very easy to make
songs, and so, doubtless, it is for those naturally gifted in that
delicate department of art ; but the poet is not always, nor
necessarily, a song-writer. Ilis production may lack no one of
the elements of a true poem — may flow in pure and perfect
cadences, yet be wanting in the subtle adaptation to methodical
music, which belongs to the song proper.
In this line of poetic inspiration, Mrs. Dana — now Mrs.
Shindler — has been eminently successful. Her " Northern " and
" Southern Harp " have become a household institution. Acting
upon the hrusque suggestion of some one — we cannot now
recall whom — that our sweetest music had belonged to the
devil long enough, she selected some of our most popular and
delicious airs, and wedded to them the flowing words of her
own sainted and sorrowing Muse. As a Sunday evening
resource alone, these collections are priceless.
Mary Stanly Bunce Palmer was born in Beaufort, South
MARY S. B. DANA SUINDLER. 369
Carolina, in 1810. She was the daughter of Eev. Benjamin M.
Palmer, D.D., who was, at that time, pastor of the Congrega-
tional Church in Beaufort. In 1814, the family removed to
Charleston, Dr. Palmer having been called to the pastorate of
the Independent church in that city. His congregation was
principally made up of planters, who divided the year between
the city and their large plantations. Reverting to this period
of her life, Mrs. Shindler says :
" I well remember the delight with which we children useQ
to anticipate our spring and Christmas holidays, which we were
sure to spend upon some neighboring plantation, released from all
our city trammels, running perfectly wild, as all city children
were expected to do, contracting sudden and violent intimacies
in all the negro houses, about Easter and Christmas times, that
we might have a store of eggs for sundry purposes, for which
wc gave, in exchange, the most gaudy cotton handkerchiefs that
could be bought in Charleston. It was during these delightful
rural visits that what little poetry I have in my nature was fos-
tered and developed ; and at an early age I became sensible of
something within me which often brought tears to my eyes
when I could not, for the life of me, express my feelings. The
darkness and loneliness of our vast forests filled me with inde-
scribable emotions, and above all other sounds, the music of the
thousand ^olian harps sighing and wailing through a forest of
pines, was most affecting to my youthful heart."
Miss Palmer was not only reared in a fine social atmosphere,
but enjoyed, in her own home, the most careful and judicious
culture. She commenced her school-life under tJie charge of
the Misses Pamsay, daughters of Daniel Ramsay, the historian,
and grand-daughters of Mr. Laurens, who figured in the history
of the Revolution. In 1825, she accompanied her parents to
Hartford, Connecticut, and was then placed in the seminary of
Rev. Mr. Emerson, at Wethersfield, Connecticut. In 1826, she
24
370 WOMEN OF THE ^OUTH.
entered the Young Ladies' Seminary at Elizabethtown, New-
Jersey, intending to remain long enougli at tlie North to rein-
state her health, which was then very delicate ; but. she began
to pine for her Southern home, and in six months was allowed
to return to it. Several months were afterward spent by her
in a seminary at New Haven, Connecticut.
At this time she was an occasional contributor to the " Ross
Bud," a periodical then under the editorial charge of Mrs.
Gilman.
On the 19th of June, 1835, she married Mr. Charles E.
Dana, and accompanied him to New York, where they resided
for three years. During these years she continued to write
poetry, but published nothing until 1841. The mournful tone
of her muse is best explained by the following extract from the
introduction to the " Southern Harp :"
There was a time when all to me was light ;
No shadows stole across my pathway bright.
I had a darling sister — but "she died.
For many years we wandered side by side,
And oft these very songs she sung with me ;
No wonder then, if they should plaintive be !
I had an only brother — and he died —
Awaj from home, and from his lovely bride ;
And not long after, those I loved too well,
Pale — cold — and stiU — in death's embraces fell;
In two short days on me no more they smiled,
My noble husband, and my only child !
'Twas sorrow made me write these plaintive lays;
And yet, if sad they are, they end in praise.
Oh, God ! I thank thee for my mother's breast,
Where I can lay my head, and sweetly rest !
I thank thee for my father's fostering arms,
On which I lean, and fear no rude alarms 1
• MARY S. B. DANA SHINDLER. 371
Oh ye who've reached the lofty heights of fame,
Eemember mine is but a youthful name.
I pray you with benignant eyes look down,
Nor from your intellectual eyries frown
On one, whose trembling steps have just begun
To clirrib th' ascent your eagle flights have won. '
No laurel wreath, to decorate my brow,
Held out by fame's bright goddess, lures me now.
May I but know I've done my humble part,
By poetry and song, to cheer the heart,
Or wake in any breast one thrilling chord,
'Tis all I ask — 'twill be a rich reward !
After tlae death of her husband and son, in 1839, to wile her
mind from sorrowful memories, Mrs. Dana tui-ned to literary
pursuits, and at last conceived the happy idea of adapting sacred
words to popular secular music, which resulted in the " South-
ern Harp." This collection was published early in the year
1841, at ISTew York.
From that time she wrote constantly, and soon produced
another volume, similar in design to the first, which was pub-
lished under the title of the " Northern Harp,", and proved
equally successful. About this time she also published a volume
of poems, entitled "The Parted Family and other Poems,'*
which had a large sale.
In 1843, she produced a prose work called " Charles Mor-
ton, or the Young Patriot," a tale of the Revolution, which was
soon followed by " The Young Sailor," and " Forecastle Tom."
These works were all well received.
Mrs. Dana had been bred strictly in the Calvinistic school,
but in the year 1844 she began to question the grounds of Trini-
tarian doctrine, and early in the year 1845, to the regretful sur-
prise of her parents and friends, embraced the Unitarian faith.
To define and defend her position, she then published a volume
372 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
entitled " Letters to Eelatives and Friends." This work, the
largest of her prose volumes, appeared in 1845, and was at once
republished in London.
In 1847, she was severely afflicted in the death of both
parents : and on the 18th of May, 1848, became the wife of
Rev. Robert D. Shindler, of the Episcopal Church. Having
returned to her early faith, they are in full communion.
In April, 1850, Mr. and Mrs. Shindler removed to Mary-
land, and subsequently to Shelbyville, Kentucky, where Mr.
Shindler accepted a professorship in Shelby College.
THE MORNING STAR OF THE SPIRIT.
When evening steals o'er me with silence and gloom,
And night-flowers are breathing their fragrant perfume,
Then, softly retiring, and kneeling alone,
I niay ask Heaven's mercy for the hours that are gone.
The bright stars may spangle the blue vaulted sky,
And dearly I love them, gay dwellers on high ;
But the night of my soul would be starless and drear.
If the bright "morning-star" did not shine on me there.
O star of my spirit ! thy soft polar ray
Can warm me, and cheer me, and brighten my way ;
For earth's dearest pleasures seem changeful to me.
Like the gay-dancing sunbeams that shine on the sea.
THE FADED FLOWER AND THE CRUSHED HEART.
I have seen a fragrant flower
All impearled with morning dew ;
I have plucked it from the bower,
Where in loveliness it grew.
MARY S. B. DANA SHINDLER. 373
0, 'twas sweet, when gayly vying
With the garden's richest bloom ;
But when faded, withered, dying,
Sweeter far its choice perfume.
So thfe heart, when crushed by sorrow,
Sends its richest streams abroad,
While it learns sweet balm to borrow
From th' uplifted hand of God.
Not in its sunny days of gladness
Will the heart be fixed on Heaven;
When 'tis wounded, clothed in sadness,
Oft its richest love is given.
THE BLEST, ETEEKAL HOME.
There's not a bright and beaming smile,
Which in this world I see,
But turns my heart to future joy,
And whispers "heaven " to me.
Though often here my soul is sad,
And falls the silent tear,
There is a world of smiles and love,
And sorrow dwells not there.
I never clasp a friendly hand,
In greeting or farewell,
But thoughts of my eternal home
Within my bosom swell.
There, when we meet with holy joy,
If o thoughts of parting come.
But never-ending ages still
Shall find us all at home.
374 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH,
SHED NOT A TEAE.
Shed hot a tear o'er your friend's early bier,
When I am gone, when I am gone ;
Smile if the slow-tolling beU you should hear,
When I am gone, I am gone.
Weep not for me when you stand round my grave,
Think who has died his beloved to save,
Think of the crown all the ransomed shall have,
When I am gone, I am gone.
Plant ye a tree, which may wave over me,
When I am gone, when I am gone ;
Sing ye a song if my grave you should see,
When I am gone, I am gone.
Come at the close of a bright summer's day.
Come when the sun sheds its last ling'ring ray,
Come, and rejoice that I thus passed away,
Wlien I am gone, I am gone.
LIKE A DREAM WHEN" ONE AWAKETH.
Like a dream when one awaketh,
Vanished away,
Earthly joy the heart forsaketh,
Doomed to decay ;
But when flesh and spirit faileth.
Heaven grows more dear,
And when grief the heart assaileth,
O, shed no tear.
Dearest hopes and joys may perish,
Lost in an hour ;
All the love the heart can cherish
May lose its power.
MARY S. B. DANA SHINDLER. 375
"When the storm is gathering o'er thee,
Do not despair ;
Heaven can every joy restore thee,
More pure and fair.
Mid thy gloom and desolation,
Whene'er they come,
For thy peace and consolation,
Think of thy home.
There thy joys shall last forever,
Changeless and bright ;
Clouds shall dim, O, never, never,
I'hat world of light.
AISnN" ELIZA DUPL"Y.
The works of this writer, like those of Mrs. Southworth,
have a strong hold upon the popular mind. They abound in
the same vivid portraiture and sharp situations, while her
imagination, taking a wide, idiosyncratic range, gives to all her
productions the stamp of personality.
Miss Dupuy is a native of Petersburg, Ya., but removed in
early life to E'orfolk. Her father, a merchant and ship-owner
of that city, was a lineal descendant of the Huguenots. Soon
after the revocation of the edict of JSTantes, her distinguished
ancestor — an officer of noble blood in the army of Louis XIY.
— set sail with a faithful band of Huguenots for America, and
colonized upon the James River, upon a tract of land which
had been granted them by James II. of England. On the
maternal side, she is descended from Joel Sturdevant, one of
the heroes of the Revolution, who fitted up a privateer at his
own expense, and performed such good service that he received
the title of Commodore.
Before our author had reached womanhood, her father,
impelled by pecuniary reverses, emigrated to Kentucky. It
was in aid of his efforts to retrieve their fallen fortunes, thar
her first work — " Merton ; a Tale of the Revolution " — ^was
written. —
After the death of her father, she commenced a strict course
of study, and adopted the profession of teacher, jotting down, in
every ray of leisure, the thoughts and fancies with which her
876
ANN ELIZA DUPLT. 377
brain teemed. In tliis waly, while in her twentj-second year,
she completed " The Conspirator," a work which, for historic
interest and graceful diction, ranks among her best efforts. It
appeared first in the "New World," and was, several years
after, republished by the Appletons. The story winds skillfully
with the details of Aaron Burr's conspiracy, and is lighted by
many pleasing pictures of Southern life and scenery.
In proof of Miss Dupuy's steady application, executive
power, and mental resource, we have only to say that, during
the years in which her freshest hours and energies were given
to teaching, she wrote and published the following works :
" Celeste, or the Pirate's Daughter," " The Separation," " The
Divorce," " The Coquette's Punishment," " Florence, or the
Fatal Yow," " The Concealed Treasure," and " Ashleigh ; a
Tale of the Revolution."
Since she has been able to devote her time more exclusively
to literary pursuits, she has written " Emma Walton, or Trials
and Triumphs," and " Tlie Country Neighborhood." These
stories are based upon actual life, and the delineations of the
latter, especially, are strong and spirited ; but it is in the work
which follows these — " The Huguenot Exiles " — that we get the
truest conception of Miss Dupuy's artistic skill. A lady of intel-
lect and culture,* who is well known to the literary circles of
New Orleans as a critic, says of this book :
" It is full of scenes of most absorbing interest, while it
exhibits the elegance of style and purity of diction which
are among Miss Dupuy's characteristics as a writer. It em-
bodies the history of the persecution which immediately pre-
ceded and followed the revocation of the edict of Nantes, by
which so many brave and noble subjects of Louis XIY. were
driven from France, to seek in our western world ' freedom to
* An adopted diiiighter of Prof Espy.
378 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
worsMp God.' In this tale the author has gracefully inter-
woven the romantic history of her own immediate ancestor.
As a historical noYel, it may class with the best in our lan-
guage."
This work was followed hy " The Planter's Daughter," a
story of southern life, full of faithful sketches in landscape and
portraiture, and strongly marked with the sharp contrasts which
may, we think, be called a specialty of this writer.
Miss Dupuy has been also an occasional contributor to
several leading journals of l^ew York. Some of her most
characteristic stories have appeared in the "Ledger," under the
name of " Anna Young." Among these, " The Lost Deeds,"
attracted much attention. Although founded upon a baseless
theory, the plot is well conceived, and might have been
wrought, with equal power, into a tale of much greater length.
It loses, indeed, somewhat in eifect by its abrupt termination.
Though circumstances have made Kentucky the nomimal
home of our author, she has passed the greater part of her life
in Louisiana and Mississippi, where, with one or two exceptions,
her works have been written.
It is said that she is singularly free from affectations, and
that to rare conversational powers and fine culture she unites
sound judgment, and that inbred fineness which is the crowning
grace of true womanhood.
The accomplished writer and critic before mentioned has
!^ndly favored us with a Tesume of " The Planter's Daughter,"
from which, as bearing directly upon the specimen chapter
which follows, we give this extract :
" Yictor, a self-indulgent young man, madly in love with
one whom wealth alone can win, and driven to desperation by
reverses of fortune, determined to rob a corpse of diamonds of
immense value, which had been buried with their possessor, a
French emigre of the old regime. He succeeds, and in exulta-
ANN ELIZA DUPUT. 379
tion seeks Louise to claim her promise, to be his when he has
wealth to offer. This scene is drawn with, great skill and vivid-
ness, and is founded upon an event which actually occurred in
the vicinity of New Orleans."
THE PLANTER'S DAUGHTER.
He placed the pistol on the table within reach of his hand, and drpvr
forth the last communication she had sent him.
" Tell me, Louise, what this production means ? Have you indeed given
up all intention of fulfilling the troth so often and so solemnly sworn ? What
do you mean by the words, ' / Tcnow how it was oitained,'' referring to the
independence I offered to share with you ?"
There was a violent effort to preserve his calmness, but his voice' qui-
vered with the intensity of his emotion, and his eyes seemed to her like a
devouring flame, as he fixed them on her whitening features.
How Louise wished some one would come in ; but no footsteps approached.
She feared to cry out, lest the excited being before her should destroy her
before assistance could reach her ; and she read that in his face which
assured her that he was desperate enough for any crime.
She did not reply, and he held the lines so close to her face as almost to
touch it, as he again demanded— " Your meaning, j'^our meaning? I must
know if you really are aware of all I have dared for your sake ; or is it a
pitiable ruse to aff'ord you excuse for your most heartless and unwbmanly
conduct toward me."
"I did not wish to break with you, Victor," she pleaded. "Your own
acts have placed a barrier between us, as I have there stated."
"My acts? "What are they? How did you know them? Speak — tell
me, what could I do that would render me unworthy of you, false and
hollow piece of deceit that I now know you to be. My conscience ! I have
none, I tell you. It was buried long since in the grave of principle. I have
become a terror and a loathing to myself, and all through you. And now
do you fancy for one moment that I will ever permit Nevin to snatch you
from me ? Tell me what you know, or my pistol shall at once do its predes-
tined work ; its fellow is ready to release me from the consequences, and I
have no compunction in using them."
380 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Again he placed his hand upon the weapon, and Louise felt that boldness
alone could now save her. She pressed her hand upon her heart to still its
^pid beating, and said :
" Listen to me, Victor, and do not endeavor to frighten me thus, for I
cannot believe that your threats are made in earnest. You have committed
a fearful crime for mj sake. I pity you ; I forgive you ; and oh, Victor, I
love you still. Do not be so harsh — so cruel ; you break my heart by acting
thus."
At the allusion to his crime, Victor shuddered, and cast a fearful glance
around. He spoke in a whisper, every tone of which seemed to vibrate
with horror.
" The dead gibbered around me ; the vaults seemed lighted with flames
from the Inferno ; but I would not be balked. Ha ! look here ; see what I
won by my perseverance."
He drew forth a casket from his pocket, and, opening it, the flash of
diamonds of singular lustre and purity, was seen. A necklace of rose
diamonds, of large size, he drew forth, and said, with a ghastly smile :
" See how I can afford to deck you, Louise."
Before she was aware of his intention, he threw it over her bare neck.
The touch of the gems, which had so lately lain in contact with the dead, over-
powered the little fortitude Louise retained, and she sunk back insensible on
the crimson velvet fauteuil in which she was seated.
Without heeding this, Victor proceeded in his task. He next drew forth
an ornament- for the head, in the shape of a coronet ; this he carefully
placed, then clasped the rings in the ears, the bracelets on her arms, and
then lifting the nerveless hand, he placed in it the miniature sceptre, of
which Nevin had spoken.
When all was done, he stood off and viewed the effect. The delicate
and colorless features of the insensible girl, contrasted with the crimson
background against which she reclined, looked pure as marble. Her even-
ing dress, of a pale rose tint, was cut so as to leave the fair neck and rounded
atrms partially bared; and the blaze of the jewels in the lamp-light might,
at a first glance, have induced one to believe that she was in grand
toilette for some gay assemblage ; but a second look at the fixed features
and closed eyes would have startled the beholder with the conviction
that death was only masked with this semblance of splendor.
Victor contemplated her in silence several moments, then he kneeled
before her, and said :
ANN ELIZA DUPUY. 381
" My queen of love and beauty, once — now my queen of death — most
royally art thou decked for the sacrifice! Ea! ha! will not Nevin learn
that his gems are well bestowed ?— even on her to whom he would have
given them himself. But I am beforehand with him. I have the advan-
tage this time, and I mean to keep it."
He kissed the hand of the insensible girl, her lifeless lips, her brow,
again and again. Then he drew from his pocket a second pistol, and
lifting the one on the table he pointed it toward the heart of Louise.
The other he placed where his hand could grasp it the instant he dropped
the first.
Then the madman paused ; and fixing his eyes adoringly upon the face
he had so worshipped, he said, in a tone of entreaty :
"Forgive me, darling, best loved one. I take you from a world that can
only bring sorrow to j^our heart, and a blight upon your loveliness. I will
not mar your beauty, my flower of Paradise ; through your heart the mes-
senger of release shall go, and you will not even feel the pain of death."
He raised himself on one knee and deliberately took aim at the left side
of the defenceless girl, who had not yet exhibited the slightest sign of
returning consciousness. Not a muscle trembled, as he slowly raised his
finger to touch tlie deadly tigger.
In another instant Louise would have been beyond help, when a swift
step came noiselessly over the carpet, and a firm hand dashed up the weapon,
with the exclamation :
" Madman ! What would you do ?"
Victor struggled violently, for he recognized the voice of his rival, and he
endeavored to turn the weapon against him. Nevin wrenched his arm with
a grasp of iron ; as the pistol came in contact with the body of the hapless
young man, it exploded, and the meditated assassin received the load in his
own heart,
HUGUENOT EXILES.
M. de Montour prided himself on tlie beauty of his horses ; and the pair
in the carriage were spirited bays, which had not long been subjected to the
constraint of harness. He was about to open the door to alight with his
daughter, and walk over this dangerous place, when the horses took fright
at some object in the road, and reared and plunged so violently that the
driver lost all control over them. The man jumped from his seat in time to
382, WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
save himself, as the unwieldy vehicle made a violent lurch toward the preci-
pice.
The traveller, whose sudden appearance on the road had frightened them,
threw himself from his mule, and seizing the hridle, made violent efforts to
restrain their downward career ; but the impulse already given them was too
great. To save himself, he was compelled to release his grasp and throw him-
self violently backward, while the unruly steeds and the heavy coach, with its
helpless occupants, went crashing down the precipice.
A few moments of breathless horror followed ; no cry came from below ;
and the two men gazed on each other with pallid cheeks. The driver at
length said:
" I'm afeared they are killed, but the devil himself could not a' held them
horses."
"Come with me," said the stranger, a respectable-looking citizen;
" there is a pathway down the ravine, let us look after these unhappy
people."
With some diflSculty they descended the precipitous path, and stood
beside the shattered carriage. The horses had been too severely injured by
the fall to move ; and M. de Montour had extricated himself from the ruins
in a stunned and bewildered condition, which rendered him oblivious even
of the state of his daughter.
Bertha, pale, and apparently dying, lay with her head in contact with the
rock against which it had been dashed with such violence as to produce con-
cussion of the brain ; there was no external wound, save that her right
hand, which she seemed instinctively to have raised to protect her face, was
completely crushed.
The stranger lifted her in his arms, and as the fading twilight fell upon
her features, he recognized her. Taking the bleeding hand in his own, he
solemnly said :
" Behold the retributive justice of Godj This hand, so lately raised in
sacrilegious outrage, will never again know its own cunning."
By this time the unhappy father began to recover sufficiently to under-
stand what passed around him. With a cry of anguish he threw himself
toward the nerveless form the stranger sustained, and took her in his own
arms. For the first time, for years, human feeling was aroused in the breast
of this man who had so hardly dealt with others, and he comprehended what
it was to suffer. In his prosperity he had forgotten that the arrows of mis-
fortune could be launched at himself; and in his egotistic love for his daugh-
ANN ELIZA DUPUY. 383
ter, he had almost ceased to remember that she •was of mortal mold, and
subject, like others, to accident or death.
"She is not dead," he sternly said. " The Virgin will not permit death
to be sent to one who this day so signally served her cause. Oh ! Koly
mother of God, listen to the supplications of thy faithful follower : let thy
saints plead for mercy to be shown to me. Save my child — save her, I pray
thee, and I promise a votive offering worthy of thy acceptance."
"Poor miserable fanatic!" exclaimed the stranger compassionately.
" One prayer to God were worth a lifetime of such supplications. Praying
to all the saints in the calendar cannot save your daughter, unless measures
are taken to gain speedy assistance for her."
" "Why is not something done, then ?" asked the bewildered father. " She
must be taken to the chateau without loss of time. Oh, what can be
done?"
"The driver can take my mule and ride to Nismes for such assistance as
we need. I will remain with you until it arrives."
The Sieur de Montour acquiesced in this arrangement, and with alacrity
the driver obeyed the command. The energetic stranger then sought among
the ruins of the carriage, from which he drew the cushions, and arranged them
in such a manner as to afford a resting-place for the insensible girl. Life
still palpitated in her frame, and lent a feeble motion to her heart, but no
sign of returning consciousness was yet visible, and the compassionate eye
that scanned her features in the gathering twilight, saw that intelligence
would never again beam from those orbs, over whose closed lids a faint pur-
ple hue was already spreading. . At length M. de Montour looked up at the
earnest face of his companion, and asked :
" "Who are you? How did you come hither so opportunely?"
The stranger sternly replied :
" I am one of those who stood tamely by to-day and saw the holy tempi©
of God defiled and destroyed, while I said in my heart, ' In his own good
time he will avenge this sacrilegious impiety ;' but I- little expected that one
of the prominent actors in the scene would so soon meet the retribution her
unwomanly act merited. God forgive me for speaking thus; for she lies
there, stricken and dying, and I, a miserable fellow worm, should not judge
her harshly."
All the old haughtiness of M. de Montour returned as he listened, and he
said:
"She is not dying — she shall not die; and you were on our path — you
384 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
caused tliis calamity of which you dare to speak as a judgment from
heaven."
"I as sincerely believe it to be such, as I believe in the mercy of God. I
was proceeding quietly on my way, when your horses overtook me ; and
why they should have reared at the sight of a peaceful traveller, I know not,
unless it was for the special purpose of bringing to pass the punishment that
surely finds its victim. Look at that hand, and then ask yourself if chance
alone produced this catastrophe."
There was a stern grandeur in the manner of the speaker, and- in him the
8ieur de Montour recognized one of the many strong souls who, in those
days, struggled against the persecutions they were compelled to bear, with
a fanaticism equal to that which oppressed them. He replied, with
asperity :
" Know that if death be sent to my child, I have faith to believe that the
uervice performed by her this day merited being taken into heaven itself to
receive her reward."
Then the anguish of the unhappy father took another phase. He had
gnmmoned the priests to perform the last rites of the church, and with fran-
tic eagerness he implored the surgeon to restore consciousness to her for a
brief space, that she might join in them. To him it was an inexpressible
horror that she should die before extreme unction had been administered.
When convinced that it was impossible, he made a sign to the priests to
perform their office without delay, and the ceremony was at once com-
menced.
The father knelt on a cushion at the foot of the couch, with his eyes im-
movably fastened on the features on which the seal of death was rapidly
stamping itself. He prayed for a sign that all was well with the departing
spirit ; miracles were of common occurrence in the church — why should not
Ohe be performed in his favor ?
The officiating priest, imbued with all the craft of his calling, was quite
willing to lend his aid to produce such a delusion. As he leaned over the
coach to anoint the dying girl with the holy chrism, he dexterously lifted
the crushed hand, and held it an instant before her father. Starting back
with an appearance of reverential awe, he said :
*' Behold, my son ! A miracle has been vouchsafed by the blessed Mother
of God! See! that hand, which so lately was lifted in holy service to the
ANN ELIZA DUPTJY. 385
chnrch, is permitted to give yoti the assurance for whicli you so earnestly
supplicate. Your daughter will receive her glorious reward."
Again the maimed hand sunk heavily on the coverlet, and at the same
instant the last breath of Bertha de Montour passed from her lips. Calmed
by this assurance, the father arose, and in the sternness of his fanatical faith,
felt enabled to bear the sudden calamity which had overtaken him.
25
AMELIA B. WELBT.
Amelia B. Coppuck was born on tlie 3d of February, 1819,
in tbe small village of St. Michael's, in Maryland, whence she
was removed, when an infant, to Baltimore. In or near this
city she continued to reside until 1834, and then sought a home
in Louisville, Kentucky, where she remained until her death.
At the age of eighteen, she contributed her first poem to
the " Louisville Journal," under the name of " Amelia." She
is, doubtless, much indebted to George D. Brentice, the peren-
nial poet and wit, as well as editor, for a careful development
of her poetic faculty, and a fair presentation to the public ; yet
the sweet flowing resonance of her verse, instinct with natural
emotion and true womanly delicacy, caught the popular ear,
and won its way to warm hearts, by a charm all its own.
There was never, perhaps, a more marked instance of purely
native poetic facility, than we find in this writer. She had
passed through no regular course of education or study, and
her range of reading was neither wide nor carefully indicated ;
yet her rhythm is faultless, her construction graceful, her style
finished, and her imagery as fresh and varied as the grand
natural scenery which surrounded her in childhood.
She seems to have impressed the critics variously. A
southern writer * — to whose discriminating sketch, originally
published in a Methodist magazine at Cincinnati, we are
indebted for our fullest knowledge of Mrs. Welby — says of her :
* Ben Casseday.
AMELIA B. WELBY. 387
" She did not reacli tlie liiglier forms of art, nor did she attempt
them. Her song was a simple measure, learned of the trill of
the brooklet, of the rustle of the leaves, or of the deep, solemn
murmur of the ocean." It was Mr, Griswold's opinion that hei
poems showed " few indications of creative power." " She
walks the temple of the muses," he writes, " with no children
of the imagination ; but her fancy is lively, discriminating, and
informed by a minute and intelligent observation of nature.
Her sentiment has the relation to passion which her fancy sus-
tains to the imagination. We are sure of the presence of a
womanly spirit, reverencing the sanctities and immunities of
Kfe, and sympathizing with whatever addresses the sense of;
beauty." While Poe, the usually clear-sighted, uncompromis-!
ing analyst, warms into unwonted enthusiasm, declaring that
" She has nearly all the imagination of Maria del Occidente,
with more refined taste ; and nearly all the passion of Mrs. l^or-
ton, with a nicer ear, and, what is surprising, equal art. Yery
few American poets are at all comparable with her, in the
true poetic sense."
In 1838, our author married Mr. George B. Welby, a mer-
chant of Louisville, and a gentleman every way worthy of her.
The only offspring of this union was a son, born two months
before the death of Mrs. Welby, in 1852.
The first edition of poems by this writer was published at
Boston, in 1845 — a small octavo volume, whose popularity was
so great, that in a few months the modest young poet was
astonished with overtures from some of the leading publishers
of the country, Tor a new edition. Tlie Appletons, proving suc-
cessful competitors, have since issued fifteen editions, and the
demand still continues.
It is only in the easy, rippling current of Mrs, Welby's cor-
respondence, that we get any clue to her style as a prose writer.
The sketch to which we have already referred, furnishes us with
388 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
tlie following specimen, wliicli is thus introduced : " She had
been visited at her residence hj a party of gay masqueraders,
among whom was an intimate friend, costumed as a Turk, and
bearing the euphonious sobriquet of Hamet Ali Ben Khorassan.
On the day after this visit, Mrs. Welby received from this
pseudo pacha a note of farewell, written in the redundant style
of the Orientals, to which she thus replied :
Although a stranger to the graoefal style of Oriental greeting, Amelia,
the daughter of the Christian, would send to Hamet Ali Ben Khorassan, ere
he departs from the midst of her people, a few words in token of farewell,
and also in acknowledgment of the flowery epistle sent hy the gallant Ben
Kiorassan to the "Bulbul of this Giaour Land," as he is pleased, in the
polite language of his country, to designate the humblest of his admirers !
Like the sudden splendor of a dazzling meteor was the brief sojourn of the
noble Ben Khorassan, in the presence of the " Bulbul." He oame before
her uniting in his aspect the majesty of a god of old with the mien of a
Baortal — graoefal in his step, winning in his mood, and terrible as an army
with banners. The song of the " Bulbul " was hushed ; the words of greet-
ing died on her lip ; but now that the mightiest of the mighty has withdrawn
from her dazzled gaze the glory of his presence, the trembling " Bulbul " lifts
her head once more, like a drooping flower oppressed by the rays of the
noon-tide sun. and in the midst of the gloom that overshadows her, recalls
to mind every word and look of the gallant Ben Khorassan, till her thoughts
of Mm arise like stars upon the horizon of her memory, lighting up the
gloom of his absence, and glittering upon the waters of the fountain of her
heart, whose every murmur is attuned to the music of his memory. But
the bark of Hamet Ali Ben Khorassan floats upon the waters with her white
wings spread for the clime of the Crescent. Her brilliant pennon streams
fi"om the strand, and the words of the " Bulbul " must falter into a farewell.
May the favoring gales of Paradise, fragrant as the breatl^ of Houris, fill the
silken sails of Ben Khorassan, and waft him onward to his native groves of
citron and of myrtle, waking thoughts in his bosom fresh and fragrant as
the flowers that cluster in his clime! Thus prays Amelia, the daughter of
the Christian, and the "Bulbul of the Giaour Land." Farewell I
It is a singular and interesting fact, that during the last four
AMELIA B. WELBY. oSO
years of Mrs. Welby's life, she ceased almost entirely to wiite in
verse. As her womanhood and soulhood deepened, she perhaps
chafed, like Mrs. Warfield, iri the silken harness of rhythm, and
was casting about for a broader outlet of utterance. Had she
lived to define the
" Sea-chansce
Into something new and strange,"
that seemed to be foreshadowed in these years of abeyance, we
might have had her gushing, poetic nature merged, not in a
" Household of Bouverie " — only the author of the " Legend of
the Indian Chamber" could have created that — ^but in some
romance alive with luminous revealings of herself.
A change came; a change not only of utterance and of
being, but a transition to a sphere, where being is full utterance,
and utterance is always harmony.
A poem, written by herself, in tender tribute to the memory
of a sister poet, is her most fitting requiem :
She has passed, like a bird from the minstrel throng,
She has gone to the land where the lovely belong !
Her place is hush'd by her lover's side.
Yet his heart is full of his fair young bride ;
The hopes of his spirit are crushed and bowed
As he thinks of his love in her long white shroud ;
For the fragrant sighs of her perfumed breath
Were kissed from her lips by his rival — Death.
Cold is her bosom, her thin white arms
All mutely crossed o'er its icy charms,
As she lies like a statue of Grecian art,
With a marble brow and a cold, hushed heart ;
Her locks are bright, but their gloss is hid ;
Her eye is simk 'neath its waxen lid ;
And thus she lies in her narrow hall —
Our fair young minstrel — the loved of all.
890 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Light as a bird's were her springing feet,
Her heart as joyous, hfer song as sweet ;
Yet never again shall that heart he stirred
With its glad wild songs like a singing bird :
Ne'er again shall the strains he sung,
That in sweetness dropped from her silver tongue ;
The music is o'er, and Death's cold dart
Hath broken the spell of that free, glad heart.
Often at eve, when the breeze is still,
And the moon floats up bj the distant hill,
As I wander alone 'mid the summer bowers,
And wreathe my locks with the sweet wild flowers ;
I will think of the time when she lingered there.
With her mild blue eyes, and her long, fair hair ;
I will treasure her name in my bosom-core ;
But my heart is sad — I can sing no more.
THE GREEN MOSSY BANE WHERE THE BUTTER-CUPS GREW.
•Oh, my thoughts are away where my infancy flew,
Near the green mossy bank where the batter-cups grew,
Where the bright silver fountain eternally played,
First laughing in sunshine, then singing in shade ;
There oft in my childhood I've wandered in play,
Flinging up the cool drops of the light-falling spray,
Till my small naked feet were all bathed i^S. bright dew.
As I played on the bank where the butter-cups grew.
How softly that green bank sloped down from the hill
To the spot where the fountain grew suddenly still !
How cool was the shadow the long branches gave.
As they hung from the willow and dipped in the wave.
And then each pale lily, that slept on the stream.
Rose and fell with. the wave, as if stirred by a dream !
While my home 'mid the vine-leaves rose soft on my view,
As I played on the bank where the butter-cups grew.
AMELIA B. WELBY. ' BG!
The beantifiil things ! how I watched them unfold,
Till they lifted their delicate Vases of gold !
Oh, never a spot since those days have I seen
With leaves of such freshness and flowers of such sheen !
How glad was my spirit ! for then there was naught
To burden its wing, save some beautiful thought
Breaking up from its depths with each wild wind that blew
O'er the green mossy bank where the butter-cups grew.
The paths I have trod I would quickly retrace,
Oonld I win back the gladness, that looked from my face
As I cooled my warm lip in that fountain, I love
With a spirit as pure as the wing of a dove —
Could I wander again where my forehead was starr'd
With the beauty that dwelt in my bosom unmarr'd,
And, calm as a child in the starlight and dew.
Fall asleep on the bank where the butter-cups grew.
MUSINGS.
I wandered out one summer-night,
'Twas when my years were few,
The wind was singing in the light,
And I was singing too ;
The sunshine lay upon the hiU,
The shadow in the vale,
And here and there a leaping riU.
Was laughing on the gale.
One fleecy cloud upon the air
Was all that met my eyes ;
It floated like an angel there
Between me and the skies :
I clapped my hands and warbled wild.
As here and there I flew.
For I was but a careless child
And did as children do.
392 • WOMEN OP THE SOUTH.
The waves came dancing o'er the sea
In bright and glittering bands ;
Like little children wild with glee,
They linked their dimpled hands —
They linked their hands, but, ere I caught
Their sprinkled drops of dew,
They kissed my feet, and quick as thought,
Away the ripples flew.
The twilight hours, like birds, flew by,
As lightly and as free ;
Ten thousand stars were in the sky,
Ten thousand on the sea ;
For every wave with dimpled face,
That leaped upon the air.
Had caught a star in its embrace,
And held it trembling there.
The young moon too, with upturned sides,
Her mirrored beauty gave,
And as a bark at anchor rides,
She rode upon the wave ;
The sea was like the heaven above,
As perfect and as whole.
Save that it seemed to thrill with love
As thrills the immortal soul.
The leaves, by spirit- voices stirred,
Made murmurs on the air.
Low murmurs that my spirit heard
And answered with a prayer;
For 'twas upon that dewy sod,
Beside the moaning seas,
I learned at first to worship God
And sing such strains as these.
AMELIA B. WELBY. 393
The flowers, all folded to their dreams,
"Where bowed in slumber free
By breezy hills and murmuring streams,
"Where'er they chanced to be ;
Fo guilty tears had they to weep,
No sins to be forgiven ;
They closed their leaves and went to sleep
'Neath the blue eye of heaven.
No costly robes upon them shone.
No jewels from the seas,
Yet Solomon, upon his throne,
Was ne'er arrayed like these ;
And just as free from guilt and art,
"Were lovely human flowers,
Ere sorrow set her bleeding heart
On this fair world of ours. '
I heard the laughing wind behind
A-playing with my hair ;
The breezy fingers of the wind —
How cool and moist they were!
I heard the night-bird warbliug o'er
Its soft enchanting strain ;
I never heard such sounds before.
And never shall again.
Then wherefore weave such strains as these
And sing them day by day,
"When every bird upon the breeze
Can sing a sweeter lay !
I'd give the world for their sweet art,
The simple, the divine —
I'd give the world to melt one heart
As they have melted mine.
394 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
TO THE SKY-LAEK.
Thou little bird, thou lov'st to dwell
Beneath the smnmer leaves !
The sunlight round thy mossy cell
A golden halo weaves ;
And the sweet dews, where'er we pass,
Like living diamonds gem the grass,
And round the mossy eaves
The twittering swallow circling flies,
As happy as the laughing skies.
Soft as a bride, the rosy dawn
From dewy sleep doth rise,
And, bathed in blushes, hath withdrawn
The mantle from her eyes ;
And, with her orbs dissolved in dew.
Bends like an angel softly through
The blue-pavilioned skies.
Then up, and pour thy mellow lay.
To greet the young and radiant day !
Hark! -now with low and fluttering start,
The sky-lark soars above,
And from her fuU melodious heart
She pours her strains of love ;
And now her quivering wings fling back
The golden light that floods her track,
Now scarcely seems to move,
But floats awhile on waveless wings.
Then soars away, and, soaring, sings.
Bird of the pure and dewy mom I
How soft thy heavenward lay
Floats up, where light and life are bom
Aroundthe rosy day !
AMELIA B. WELBY. 395
And, as the balm that fills the hour
Lies soft upon each waving flower,
The happy wind at play
Tells, as its voice goes laughing by,
The lark is singing in the sky.
•
When shall thy fearless wing find rest,
Bird of the dewy hours ?
"When wilt thou seek thy little nest,
Close hid among the flowers?
Not till the bright clouds, one by one.
Are marshalled round the setting sun,
In heaven's celestial bowers,
Shall the old forest round thee fling
Its mournful shades, O lonely thing !
Lonely ! and did I call thee lone ?
'Twas but a careless word :
The round blue heaven is aU thine own,
O free and happy bird !
Wherever laughs a singing rill,
Or points to heaven a verdant hiU,
Thy waving wiug hath 'stirred;
For all sweet things, where'er they be,
Are like familiar friends to thee.
Could T, O living lute of heaven I
But learn to act thy part.
And use the gift so freely given.
That floods my inmost heart ;
Each morn, my melting strains of love
Should rise like thine to Him above,
Who made thee what thou art,
And spread abroad each waving tree.
For thee, O little bird ! for thee.
396 WOMEN OE THE SOUTH.
And shall the poet envy thee,
Bird of the quivering wing,
"Whose soul immortal, swift, and free,
Should ever soar and sing?
Predestined for a loftier flight,
The spirit, filled vidth heavenly light,
From this cold earth shall spring,
And soar where thou canst never roam,
Bird of the blue and breezy dome.
Oh ! if our hearts, were never stirred.
By harsher sounds than these —
The low, sweet singing of a bird.
The murmur of the breeze —
How soft would glide our fleeting hours,
Blessed as the sunshine and the flowers,
And calm as summer seas !
Linked hand in hand with Love and Hope,
We'd wander down life's flowery slope.
THE FREED BIRD.
Thy cage is opened, bird ! too well I love thee
To bar the sunny things of earth from thee ;
A whole broad heaven of blue lies calm above thee.
The green-wood waves beneath, and thon art free ;
These slender wires shall prison thee no more —
Up, bird ! and 'mid the clouds thy thrilling mnsic pour.
Away ! away ! the laughing waters, playing,
Break on the fragrant shore in ripples blue,
And the green leaves unto the breeze are laying
Their shining edges, fringed with drops of dew ;
And, here and there, a wild flower lifts its head
Refreshed with sudden life from many a sunbeam Bhed.
AMELIA B. WELBY 397
How sweet thy voice will sound ! for o'er yon river
The wing of silence, like a dream, is laid,
And naught is heard save where the wood-boughs quiver,
Making rich spots of trembling light and shade.
And a new rapture thy wild spirit fills,
For joy is on the breeze, and morn upon the hills.
ITow, like the aspen, plays each quivering feather
Of thy swift pinion, bearing thee along.
Tip, where the morning stars once sang together,
To pour the fullness of thine own rich song ;
And now thou'rt mirrored to my dazzled view,
A little dusky speck amid a world of blue.
Yet I wiU shade mine eye and still pursue thee,
As thou dost melt in soft ethereal air.
Till angel-ones, sweet bird, will bend to view thee,
And cease their hymns awhile thine own to share ;
And there thou art, with light clouds round thee furled,
Just poised beneath yon vault, that arches o'er the world.
A free wild spirit unto thee is given,
Bright minstrel of the blue celestial dome f
For thou wilt wander to yon upper heaven,
And bathe thy plumage in the sunbeam's home ;
And soaring upward from thy dizzy height
On free and fearless wing, be lost to human sight.
Lute of the summer clouds ! whilst thou art singing
Unto thy Maker thy soft matin hymn.
My own mild spirit, from its temple springing,
Would freely join thee in the distance dim ;
But I can only gaze on thee and sigh
With heart upon my lip, bright minstrel of the sky !
WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
And yet, sweet bird ! bright thoughts to me are given
As many as the clustering leaves of June ;
And my young heart is like a harp of heaven,
Forever strung unto some pleasant tune ;
And my soul burns with wild poetic fire,
Though simple are my strains, and simpler still my lyre.
And nov7, farewell ! the wUd wind of the mountain
And the blue streams alone my strains have heard ;
And it is well, for from my heart's deep fountain
They flow, uncultured, as thine own, sweet bird !
For my free thoughts have "ever spumed control,
Since this heart held a wish, and this fraU form a soul !
WHEi^ SOFT STARS.
When soft stars are peeping
Through the pure azure sky
And southern gales sweeping
Their warm breathing by,
Like sweet music pealing
Far o'er the blue sea.
There come o'er me stealing
Sweet memories of thete.
The bright rose when faded,
Flings forth o'er its tomb
Its velvet leaves laded
With silent perfume :
Thus round me will hover
In grief or in glee,
TiU life's dream be over,
Sweet memories ofthee.
As a sweet lute, that lingers
In silence alone,
Unswept by light fingers,
Scarce murmurs a tone,
AMELIA B. WELBY. 399
My young heart resembled
That lute, light and free,
TiU o'er its chords trembled.
Those memories of thee.
THE PRESENCE OF GOD.
O Thou, who fling'st so fair a robe
Of clouds around the hills untrod —
Those mountain-pillars of the globe,
"Whose peaks sustain thy throne, O God I
All glittering round the sunset skies,
Their trembling folds are lightly furled,
As if to shade from mortal eyes
The glories of yon upper world ;
There, while the evening star upholds
In one bright spot their purple folds,
My spirit lifts its silent prayer,
For Thou,- the God of love, art there.
The summer flowers, the fair, the sweet,
TTpspringing freely from the sod.
In whose soft looks we seem to meet,
At every step, Thy smiles, O God !
The humblest soul their sweetness shares,
They bloom in palace-hall, or cot —
Give me, O Lord ! a heart like theirs,
Contented with my lowly lot !
Within their pure ambrosial bells.
In odors sweet Thy Spirit dwells ;
Their breath may seem to scent the air —
'Tis Thine, O Go'd ! for thou art there.
List ! from yon casement low and dim
What sounds are these, that fill the breeze?
It is the peasant's evening hymn
Arrests the fisher on the seas —
400 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
The old man leans his silver hairs
TJpon his light suspended oar,
Until those soft delicious airs
Have died like ripples on the shore.
Why do his eyes in softness roll ?
What melts the manhood from his soul?
His heart is filled with peace and prayer,
For Thou, 0 God ! art with him there.
The birds among the summer-blooms
Pour forth to Thee their strains of love.
When, trembling on uplifted plumes,
They leave the earth and soar above;
We hear their sweet familiar airs
Where'er a sunny spot is found ;
How lovely is a life like theirs,
Diffusing sweetness all around !
From clime to clime, from pole to pole.
Their sweetest anthems softly roU,
TiQ, melting on the realms of a,ir.
Thy still small voice seems whispering there.
The stars, those floating isles of light,
Eound which the clouds unfurl their sails,
Pure as a woman's robe of white
That trembles round the form it veUs,
They touch the heart as with a speU,
Yet set the soaring fancy free,
And O how sweet the tales they tell !
They tell of peace, of love, and Thee !
Each raging storm that wildly blows.
Each balmy gale that lifts the rose,
Sublimely grand, or softly fair,
They speak of Thee, for Thou art there.
The spirit oft oppressed with doubt.
May strive to cast Thee from its thought,
But who can shut thy presence out.
Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought !
AMELIA B. WELBT. 40l
In spite of all our cold resolves,
Whate'er our thoughts, where'er we be,
Still magnet-like the heart revolves,
And points, all trembling, up to Thee ;
"We cannot shield a troubled breast
Beneath the confines of the blessed,
Above, below, on earth, in air,
For Thou the living God art there.
Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread,
Where soaring fancy oft hath been,
There is a land where Thou hast said
The pxu'e of heart shall enter in ;
In those far realms, so calmly bright,
How many a loved and gentle one
Bathes its soft plumes in living light
That sparkles from Thy radiant throne !
There souls, once soft and sad as ours,
Look up and sing 'mid fadeless flowers —
They dream no more of grief and care.
For Thou, the God of peace, art there.
THOU CANST NOT FORGET ME.
Then canst not forget me, for memory will fling
Her light o'er oblivion's dark sea ;
And wherever thou roamest, a something will cling
To thy bosom that whispers of me ;
Though the chords of thy spirit I now may not sweep,
Of my touch they'll retain a soft thrUl,
Like the low, under-tone of the motu-nfol- voiced deep,
When the wind that has swept it is still.
The love that is kept in the beauty of trust,
Cannot pass like the foam from the seas.
Or a mark that the finger hath traced in the dust,
When 'tis swept by the breath of the breeze 4
26
402 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
They tell me, my love, thou wilt calmly resign,
Yet I know, e'en while listening to them,
Thou wilt sigh foi: the heart that was linked tmto thine
As a rose-bud is linked to its stem.
Thou canst not forget me, too long thou hast flung
Thy spirit's soft pinion o'er mine ;
Too deep was the promise, that round my lips clung,
As they softly responded to thine :
In the hush of the twilight, beneath the blue skies,
My presence will mantle thy soul.
And a feeling of softness will rush to thine eyes,
Too deep for thy manhood's control.
Thou mayst roam'1;o thine own isle of beauty and fame,
Far, far from the land of the free ;
Yet, each wind that floats round thee will murmur the name
That is softer than music to thee ;
And when round thee darkly misfortunes shall crowd,
Thou'lt think, like the beautiful form
Of the rainbow, that arches the thick tempest-cloud,
My love would have brightened the storm,
Thou canst not forget me — the passion, that dwelt
In the depth of thy soul, could not die,
With the memory of all thou hast murmured and felt,
In thy bosom 'twill slumbering lie ;
Thou mayst turn to another, and wish to foi^et,
But the wish will not bring thee repose,
For ah! thou wUt find that the thorn of regret
Will be linked with the sweets of the rose.
ON ENTEEING THE MAMMOTH CAVE.
Hush ! for my heart-blood curdles as we enter
To glide in gloom these shadowy realms about ;
Oh! what a scene ! — the round globe to its centre,
To form this awful cave, seems hollowed out!
AMELIA B.WELBY: 403
Yet panse — no mystic word hath yet been spoken
To win ns entrance to this awful sphere —
A whispered prayer mnst be our watchword token,
And peace — like that around us — peace unbroken.
The passport here.
And now farewell, ye birds and blossoms tender,
Ye glistening leaves by morning dews impearled.
And you, ye beams that light with softened splendor ,
The glimmering glories of yon outer world !
While thns we paused these silent arches under,
To you and yours a wild farewell we wave,
For oh ! perhaps this awful spot may sunder
Our hearts from all we love — this world of wonder
May be our grave.
And yet farewell ! the faintly flickering torches
Light our lone footsteps o'er the silent sod ;
And now all haU, ye everlasting arches.
Ye dark dominions of an unseen God !
"Who would not for this sight the bliss surrender
Of all the beauties of yon sunny sphere,
And break the sweetest ties, however tender,
To be the witness of the silent splendor
That greets us here !
Ye glittering caves, ye high o'erhanging arches,
A pilgrim-band we glide amid your gloom,
With breathless lips and high uplifted torches,
All fancifully decked in cave-costume ;
Far from the day's glad beams, and songs and flowers,
We've come with spell-touched hearts, ye countless caves,
To glide enchanted, for a few brief hours.
Through the calm beauty of your awful bowers
And o'er your waves !
Beautiful cave ! that all my soul entrances,
Known as the "Wonder of the West so long,
Oh 'twere a fate beyond my wildest fancies.
Could I but shrine you now, as sucli, in song!
404 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
But 'tis in vain — the untauglit child of Nature,
I cannot vent the thoughts'that through me flow,
Yet none the less is graved thine every feature
Upon the wild imaginative creature
That hails you now !
Palace of Nature ! with a poet's fancies
I've ofttimes pictured thee in dreams of bliss,
, And glorious scenes were given to my glances,
But never gazed I on a scene like this !
Compared with thine, what are the awful wonders
Of the deep, fathomless, unbounded sea?
Or the storm-cloud, whose lance of lightning sunders
The solid oak ? — or even thine awful thunders,
Niagara !
Hark ! hear ye not those echoes ringing after
Our gliding steps — ^my spirit faints with fear —
Those mocking tones, like subterranean laughter —
Or does the brain grow wild with wandering here ?
There may be spectres wild, and forms appalling.
Our wandering eyes, where'er we rove, to greet —
Methinks I hear their low sad voices calling
Upon us now, and far away the falling
Of phantom feet.
The glittering dome, the arch, the towering column,
Are sights that greet us now on every hand ;
And all so wild — so strange — so sweetly solemn —
So like one's fancies formed of fairy -land !
And these then are your works, mysterious powers!
Your spells are o'er, around us, and beneath,
These opening aisles, these crystal fruits and flowers,
And glittering grots, and high-arched beauteous bowers,
As stiU as death.
But yet lead on ! perhaps than this fair vision,
Some lovelier yet in darkling distance lies —
Some cave of beauty, like those realms elysian
That ofttimes open on poetic eyes !
AMELIA B. WELBt. 405
Some spot, where led by fancy's sweet assistance,
Our wandering feet o'er silvery sands may stray,
"Where prattling waters urge with soft resistance
Their wavelets on, till lost in airy distance,
And far away !
Oft the lone Indian o'er these low-toned waters
Has bent perhaps his swarthy brow to lave !
It seems the requiem of their dark-eyed daughters —
Those sweet wild notes that wander o'er the wave I
Hast thou no relic of their ancient glory,
No legend, lonely cavern ! linked with thine ?
No tale of love — no wild romantic story
Of some warm heart whose dreams were transitory
And sweet as mine ?
It must be so ! the thought your spell enhances —
Yet why pursue this wild, romantic dream ?
The heart, afloat upon its fluttering fancies.
Would lose itself in the bewildering theme !
And yet, ye waters ! still I list your surging,
And ever and anon I seem to view,
In fancy's eye, some Indian maid emerging
Through the deep gloom, and o'er your waters urging
Her light canoe;
Oh silent cave ! amid the elevation
Qf lofty thought could I abide with thee.
My soul's sad shrine, my heart's lone habitation,
Forever and forever thou shouldst be !
Here into song my every thought I'd render.
And thou — and thou alone — shouldst be my theme,
Far from the weary world's delusive splendor.
Would not my lonely life be all one tender
Delicious dream ?
Yes, though no other form save mine might hover
In these lone halls, no other whisper roll
Along those airy domes that arch me over,
Save gentle Echo's, sister of my soul !
4-06 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Yet, 'neath these domes, whose spell of beauty weighs me,
My heart would evermore in bliss abide —
No sorrow to depress, no hope to raise me,
Here would I ever dwell, with none to praise m©
And none to chide !
Region of caves and streams ! and must I sever
My spirit from your spell ? 'Twere bliss to stray
The happy rover of your realms forever,
And yet, farewell forever and for aye !
I leave you now, yet many a sparkling token
"Within your cool recesses I have sought
To treasure up with fancies still unspoken —
Till from these quivering heart-strings, Death hath broken
The thread of thought !
KATE A. DU BOSE.
Mks. Du Bose is the eldest daugliter of Rev. William
Richards, of Beaufort District, S. C. She was bom in the year
1828, in a village in Oxfordshire, England. Soon after her
birth, the family came to this country and settled in Georgia,
removing thence in a few years to their present home, ia
South Carolina.
In 1848, she married Mr. Charles W. Du Bose, an accom-
plished gentleman, and leading lawyer, of Sparta, Georgia,
where, in the midst of a refined and cultivated people, they at
once set up their household gods. In their " "Willow Cottage " —
the coziest of homes, embowered in the rich flowering trees of
that region — their family of brave boys is growing daily,
under a discipline which promises the manliest and worthiest
life.
Mrs. Du Bose's education, received in our northern cities,
was made most successfully available in several years' experi-
ence as teacher in the home of her adoption.
Her love of letters was indicated at a very early age, and
had circumstances thrown her into the field as a professional
contestant for literary honors, she must have achieved distinc-
tion. As it is, her productions have come to us, for the most
part, in journals and- magazines, only as they have been sug-
gested or solicited, and generally under the name of " Leila
Cameron." Many of her best poems were coTitributed to the
** Southern Literary Gazette," formerly published in Charles-
40T
408 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
ton, and edited hj her brotlier, Rev. "Wm. C. Eicliards, who has
since removed to Providence, E.. I. She was also a favorite cor-
respondent of the " Orion Magazine," of Georgia, and it was
for this paper that she wrote the popular prize poem,
" Wachulla " a fine spirited description of a famous fountain in
Florida.
In 1858, her first published volume was issued from the
press of Sheldon & Co., IS'ew York. This is an interesting
prose story for the young, entitled "The Pastor's Household."
It displays a narrative and dramatic power, indicative of skill
and resource in this difficult department of literary composi-,
tion. It is to be hoped that our " little people " may be made
happy by many other genial and wholesome books from this
writer's pen.
As the child of a gifted and highly educated parentage, and
a member of a large family circle, all remarkable for aesthetic
proclivities, Mrs. Du Bose has enjoyed unusual facilities for
early and thorough cultivation. One of her brothers — -to
whom we have already referred — is not only known as the
editor of a popular southern journal, but as the author of a
happily designed work, called " The Shakspeare Calendar ;" while
another brother, T, Addison Hichards, of New York, has won
distinction, not only as an artist and poet, but as the efficient
principal of the " School of Design for Women," which is doing
a noble work within the walls of the Cooper Institute.
Combining, as Mrs, Du Bose does, the most delicate tastes
with equal earnestness of character, and a large religions
element, she - could not fail to exert in any community the
healthful influence, which is so essentially felt and confessed
throughout the little village in which her lot is cast, We see
here — as we see nowhere so truly as in southern households — the
rare union of unpretending domestic love with artistic capacity
and achievement.
KATE A. DU BOSE. 409
THE PASTOR'S HOUSEHOLD.
At the desk in front of our hero, sat a boy, whose pale, sickly countenance,
and melancholy air, had from the first excited his warmest sympathies.
Many acts of kindness had endeared him to the poor lad, whose threadbare
apparel stamped him as the child of poverty, and whose constitutional weak-
ness, to which was added a crippled limb, put it out of the question for him
to join in the more active sports of the boys, and sometimes even to walk
without great pain and difBcnlty. At such times, Claude's arm was ever
ready to assist, and often would he leave a fine game of ball, or an entertain-
ing book, to enliven a dull hour for the poor crippled lad.
" Lame Jimmy," as everybody called him, was an orphan, thrown help-
less and friendless upon the charity of Dr. Carlisle, who, having furnished
him a place at his table, and in his school-room, gave himself no further
trouble about the child, whose scanty wardrobe bore evidence to the neglect
with which he was treated. This was eked out by various trifling services
performed for the elder boys — copying esercises, and the like — which, to
their credit, were frequently liberally rewarded. Sometimes, a bundle of
shoes and clothing was given to him by some lad who had outgrown them ;
and in various ways poor Lame Jimmy contrived to appear always neat,
though his wardrobe was very seldom amply supplied.
He was a meek, silent boy, evidently feeling deefjly the slights of his com-
panions— ^but never complaining — and always grateful for kindness, and
truthful .and upright in every act. A look of patient suffering ever dwelt
upon his pale features, giving them an expression unfitted to his' years.
But this boy, with all his physical and worldly disadvantages, possessed
a mind of no ordinary cast. Without any apparent eflfort, he mastered the
most difficult studies ; and other boys, who mocked at his poverty and
treated him with disdain, hesitated not to apply to Lame Jimmy when-
ever there was a hard sentence to construe, or a knotty problem to
solve.
But, after awhile, Jimmy flagged in his progress — his head often dropped
wearily on his desk, and his hollow cough broke more frequently the still-
ness of the school-room. The boys were so accustomed to his limping step
and painful cough, that it elicited no attention ; but Claude, whose heart was
ever open to the distress or suffering of others, remarked the increased
410 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
illness of the boy witli much concern. He mentioned it to Percy, who had
also been kind to the poor fellow, but he said, " Oh, Lame Jimmy is often
so; but he will be better after awhile."
Claude had been now nearly a year at Dr. Carlisle's school, and only
once during that time had he visited Lynn for a few days ; but now the
annual examination was approaching, to be followed by a vacation of
several weeks. Every year a number of students passed from the institu-
tion, either to enter upon the business of the great world, or to be admitted
to college halls ; and a large assembly of ladies and gentlemen met to listen
to the original addresses prepared for the occasion.
This was a great day with all, and Claude looked forward to it with a
beating heart and a kindling cheek ; for with the other guests would come
his uncle and little Nell, now entering her tenth year. Added to his own
eager desire to see them, was the wish that Percy should know the friends
he so dearly loved.
Ambitious of distinguishing himself in their eyes, the ardent boy pored
over his books, early and late. Indeed, Percy had fairly to drag him away
for necessary recreation. A short time before the closing day, he threw
down book and pencil one evening, and, wearied with study, his brow pale
and his cheek burning, he passed hastily through the common hall to join
the boys, whose merry voices resounded from the playground. Bounding
lightly down the steps, exhilarated by the cool breeze that played so grate-
fully on his throbbing temples, he caught the plaintive tones of Lame Jimmy,
and turning suddenly, saw him standing at the back entrance, struggling to
release a small volume which he held from the rude grasp of Andrews.
"Don't — please don't," said the meek tones; "it was my mother's, and
she is dead."
"Give it up, boy — confound you! — give it up, I say, or by Jupiter Pll
show you stars in the day-time !"
" Oh, please don't, Andrews; it's everything I've got in the world, and
you said you would throw it into the duck-pond, to spite Claude Villars ;
you may kill me, but yon shan't have it."
" And so I will spite him, a canting hypocrite. Don't you resist me, you
pitiful puppy! By George! I'll teach you better manners;" and uttering a
dreadful oath, he snatched the volume from the fragile grasp, and threw it
into a trough of dirty water that stood near. Then, flushed with passion, he
turned to the lad, who stood aghast and trembling at his violence, and dealt
him a blow which felled him to the ground.
KATE A. DU BOSE. 411
In an instant Claude confronted him, his noble face flaming with indig-
nation.
"Mean, cowardly tyrant!" he cried, "how dare you to strike one whom
God has singled out for pity ? Take that to teach you how to treat the weak
and helpless !" and summoning all his strength, he struck him full in the faee
with his clenched fist.
"Hm-rah for Claude! Don't his eyes flash ;" "Bravo ! Villars, give it to
Mm again ;" " He's roused the tiger at last," shouted half a dozen voices, as
little knot of boys gathered around ; but Claude, his sudden passion expended,
folded his arms, and calmly waited the approach of his antagonist, who,
almost blind with passion, came rushing toward him. Agile as a cat, Claude
sprang lightly aside and escaped the. blow. Before the bully could collect
himself for a new assault, the form of Dr. Carlisle appeared, and his stern
voice silenced the clamor of tongues.
" How now, young gentlemen ! is my house a fit place for disgraceful
broils ? Claude Villars, do I see you engaged in an affair like this ?"
Claude raised his clear eyes undauntedly, but made no reply. For an
.instant the doctor eyed the group in stern silence. Jimmy had by this time
risen to his feet, and stood at Claude's side, the tears running down his pale
cheeks, and his large, mournful eyes (the only feature that redeemed his
positive ugliness of face), fixed appealingly on the wrathful countenance
before them. At length the doctor spoke.
" Villars, what is the meaning of this, and where did Andrews get that
black eye? I demand an explanation."
"I have none to make, sir,''' replied Claude quietly, yet respectfully.
" He gave it to me," muttered Andrews.
"Shame ! shame I" passed whisperingly through the crowd of boys.
Again the doctor regarded them silently, and seeing the words quivering
on Jimmy's pale lips, nodded kindly, saying :
" Speak on, my. boy ; I see you have something to say."
Thus encouraged, he poured forth warmly the story of his wrongs, and
Claude's retaliation ; treating lightly his own sufferings, but eloquently
defending his young protector. But alas for the poor boy ! as he thus plain-
tively told his tale, his face turned deadly pale, and a small stream of blood
trickled from his thin lips on his old worn jacket ; fainting, he would again
have fallen, but for the supporting arms of Claude, who leaned anxiously
over his drooping burden.
*' Carry him to bed at once," said the doctor, much shocked. " yotmgp
412 WOMEli OF THE SOUTH.
gentlemen, I will see you in my study," and in a few minutes the playground
exliibited its usual quiet appearance.
For many days poor Jimmy was extremely ill ; at length he began slowly
to recover, and a day or two before the close of the term, walked feebly
downstairs. Andrews had been expelled from school, but, through the
earnest intercession of Claude, his punishment was mitigated, and he was
spared the public disgrace attendant upon expulsion. After two weeks, he
was again seated at his desk, humbled and quiet, if not repentant.
" You've done for Andrews, Claude," said Percy, laughing, as they
passed him in the playground the day before examination. " I don't think
he wiU ever molest you again; you 'heaped coals of fire on his head,' by
saving him from public disgrace, and then capped the climax by correcting
his theme when you were so desperately busy yourself."
" Pho ! that was nothing ; but I do think Andrews will be a better fel-
low ; he seems heartily ashamed of his cowardly treatment of poor Jim.
"What do you think ? he came upstairs yesterday with a beautiful new Bible,
and begged Jimmy to accept of it in token of forgiveness for his conduct."
" And how was it received ?"
" Oh, you know Jimmy is meekness itself; I do believe he will merit the
reward of the third beatitude — ' For they shall inherit the earth ' — ^if any
one does. He put out his poor thin hand, and took the Bible with a patient
smile ; but when we were alone again, he said to me, with tears swelling in
his large' eyes, ' This can never be to me what the other was — my own dear
mother's Bible!'"
WACHULLA.
Chief among the attractions of Tallahassee are the many beautiful sprins^s found in the vicinity.
Ten miles from the city is a famous fountain, called Waohulla. It is an immense limestone basin,
as yet unfathomed in the centre, with waters as transparent as crystal.
Fountain of beauty ! on my vision breaking.
How springs my heart thy varied charms to greet,
While thoughts of loveliness within me waking.
Fill all my being with their influence sweet.
Gazing on thee, my spirit's wild commotion
Is hushed beneath some mighty magic spell —
Till thrilling with each new and strange emotion,
No feelings but of high and pure devotion
Within me dwell.
KATE A. DU BOSE. 41;
Wachulla, beauteous spring! tliy crystal waters
Eeflect the loveliness of southern skies ;
And oft methiuks the dark-haired Indian daughters
Bend o'er thy silver depths with wondering eyes;
From forest glade the swarthy chief emerging,
Delighted paused, thy matchless charms to view ;
Then to thy flower-gemmed border slowly verging,
I see him o'er thy placid bosom urging
His light canoe !
Break not the spell that wraps this beauteous vision,
In the enchantment of some fairy dream ;
Methinks I wander in these realms elysian,
Which on poetic fancies sometimes gleam.
Round me the dim-arched forest proudly towers,
Seeming those light and floating clouds to kiss ;
Oh, let me linger for a few brief hours
By this enchanted fount — these wild-wood bowers,
To dream of bliss.
With the bright crimson of the maple twining,
The fragrant bay its peerless chaplet weaves ;
And where magnolias in their pride are shining,
The broad palmetto spreads its fan-like leaves :
Far down the forest aisles, where sunbeams quiver
The fairest flowers their rainbow hues combine;
And pendent o'er the swiftly-flowing river.
The shadows of the graceful willow shiver,
In glad sunshine.
Bright-plumaged birds their gorgeous hues enwreathing
Their amorous tunes to listening flowers repeat ;
Which, in reply, their sweetest incense breathing,
Pour on the silent air their perfume sweet ;
From tree to tree the golden jasmine creejung,
Hangs its light bells on every slender spray;
And in eacli fragrant chalice slily peeping,
The humming-bird its odorous store is reaping,
The livelong day.
414 V/OMEN OF THE SOUTH.
iSTatiire has here no -willfQl mood unfolded,
Her choicest stores the wilderness to deck ;
And forms of rare and perfect beanty molded,
Where no rude hand her beauty dares to check.
How could I sit, and watch the waters glancing
In the calm beauty of these cloudless skies ;
My vivid fancy every charm enhancing,
And sight and sound my senses all entrancing,
Till daylight dies.
How o'er the misty past my thoughts would ponder,
When sad and lone beside WachuUa's spring.
The red man, flying from his foes, would wander,
And to the wave his heart- wrung murmurs fling.
Oppression stern his free-born soul enthralling.
He flies for shelter to those wild-wood haunts —
And on the spirit of his loved ones calling.
While murmuring voices on his ear are falling,
This descant chaunts.
" Great Spirit of our race ! hast thou forsaken
Thy favored children in their hour of need ?
Their wailing voice WachuUa's echoes waken —
Will not the spirit of their Father heed?
Sunshine and joy our own loved dells are flushing,
But 'mid their charms the red man wanders lone ; •
He hears the free winds through the forest rushing, ,
He sees WachuUa's gladsome waters gushing,
Yet hears no tone !"
Alas, sad warrior! by these silver waters
No more shall gather thy ill-fated band ;
Thy hunters bold, thy dark-eyed lovely daughters.
Long since have sought their own loved spirit land.
Yet still methinks I hear their voices sighing
In the soft breeze that blows from yonder shore;
And wild-wood echoes to the stream replying.
Mourn that the voices on the water dying
Keturn no morel
KATE A. DU BOSE. 415
But now the soft sonth wind all gently wooetli
Our little bark to leave the flower-gemmed shore ;
And the light breeze that perfume round us streweth,
This fairy basin soon will waft us o'er ;
Then while soft zephyrs round us faintly blowing,
Bear wordless voices from the forest deep,
We'll listen to the water's ceaseless flowing,
And watch the wavelets dancing on — ^unknowing
What course they keep.
With rapid oar, the water-lilies parting,
Whose snowy petals form the Naiad's wreath,
Soon o'er the crystal fountain swiftly darting,
We cast our gaze a hundred feet beneath !
Between two heavens of purest blue suspended,
Above these fairy realms we float at will —
Where crystal grottoes lift their columns splendid.
Formed of rare gems of pearl and emerald, blended
With magic skill.
Now in the west the gold and crimson blending,
Tell that soft twilight falleth o'er the world ;
And on the breeze all noiselessly descending,
The dew-drops lie in lily-cups impearled,
All thought is lost in sweet bewildering fancies,
While from the forest dies the light of day ;
And witching silence every spell enhances,
As o'er the wave the last glad sunbeam glances,
Then fades away !
Farewell, Wachulla ! sadly must I sever
My spirit from thy sweet bewildering spell ;
I leave thee, fairy fount, perhaps forever,
And mournfully I bid thee now — farewell I
Yet still thy loveliness my soul o'erpowers,
While dreamy shadows on the forest fall —
And long shall memories of thy beauteous bov.'ors
Fall on my heart like dew on summer flowers,
Refreshing all !
A. R. BLOUNT AND 0. B. SINCLAIE.
Miss Blount is a native of Georgia, born June 22d, 1839.
Her family, for many years resident in Richmond County,
removed but recently to Augusta, Georgia, where our young
writer was deprived of her estimable mother.
Until her thirteenth year, she was educated entirely at the
country schools in her neighborhood, but after that time
entered the junior class of the Methodist Female College at
Madison, Georgia, where she graduated at the age of seventeen.
A satirical poem on "The Follies of the Age," which she
delivered on commencement day, was extensively circulated
through the South, and received many encomiums.
Forced by pecuniary reverses in the family to make her own
way in the world, she resolved to devote her time to literary
pursuits ; and, soon after her collegiate course ended, assumed
the editorial responsibility of a paper published at Bainbridge,
Georgia. For two years she continued the arduous duties of
this position, upheld by the appreciation of the public, and the
blessings of those nearest and dearest at her own fireside.
Miss Blount has been several times the successful competitor
for prizes offered for poems and novelettes; on one occasion
receiving a gold medal valued at a hundred dollars, for a short
prose sketch, entitled "The Sisters." A volume of her poems
has just been issued by H. D. Norrell, Augusta, Ga.
Miss Sinclair was born in Milledgeville, Ga., May 22, 1839.
Her father, the Eev. Elijah Sinclair, at the time of her birth
A. R. BLOUNT AND C. B. SINCLAIR. 417
was a travelling preacher and a member of the Georgia Con-
ference. A few years after, liis health failing, he retired from
professional service, and removed to Macon, Ga., where he
became engaged in extensive mercantile business. From thence
he afterward removed to Savannah, then to ISTorth Carolina,
and finally to Georgetown, S. C, where he passed ^he last years
of his life. His family then removed to Augusta, Ga., and
there Miss Sinclair began her career as a writer.
Disavowing all desire for fame, as well as. any great degree
of confidence in her own abilities, Miss Sinclair has just given
to the world a book of poems, impelled chiefly, she says, by the
hope of being enabled thereby to secure a home for her mother
and sisters.
As we have received both of these volumes too late for a
careful reading, we subjoin a spicy notice from the pen of the
gifted poet and editor, John R. Thompson, of Richmond, Ya.
Poems. By Miss Annie R. Blount. Augusta, 6a. : Published by H. D. Norrell, No. 226 Broad street.
1S60.
Poems. By Miss Carrie Bell Sinclair. Same publisher.
" With compliments of the author ■' in each volume ! In the name of all
the nine Muses at once, we would ask what courage, what capacity has the
editor to sit in judgment on the merits of poems thus brought to his notice?
A pair of little birds come out of the forest and sing their melodies in con-
cert for us, for all a June morning, with irrepressible gladness and as if their
hearts were full to bursting — can we fail to feel grateful for the singing, and
shall we say that the nightingale and the mocking-bird thrill a sweeter note
than the linnet and the finch? Shall we complain of the crocus that it is not
a rose or a camellia ? Shall we try the poems by the standard of highest
excellence and compare our sister poets (for such they seem in quality and in
affection) with Mrs. Browning? Thank you, no. jSTor will we seek to point
out imperfections ; but as something we must say of Misses Blount and Sin-
clair, let us own that their volumes indicate poetic impressibility and much
facility of versification, but also betray exceeding haste in the writers, as if
they imagined that poetry must be composed with the greate.st speed, dashed
27
418 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
off at the precious, golden' "moment of inspiration," and forthwith placed in
print before an expectant and sympathizing public. This is a sad mistake.
The truest poets have always painfully elaborated their verses, as if, accord-
ing to the inexorable law of human compensations which decrees that all
pleasure must be bought of suffering, these verses would afford the reader
no enjoyment had they cost the writer no trouble. The most tripping and
graceful of all the "Irish Melodies," which would seem to have gushed from
the fountain of Mr. Thomas Moore as freely as a spring pours its cool, spark-
ling tribute into Killarney, were, in point of fact, not in the least gushing ;
they just trickled, as it were, drop by drop, and it was not until four or five
weeks had elapsed, in several instances, from the time of its commencement,
that the perfect ballad was ready for the piano and the printer. Byron, we
know, wrote rapidly, but "Ohilde Harold " itself has some errors in gram-
mar, and whoever gets a sight of the original MS., in the little Byron parlor
over the book wareroom of Mr. John Murray, in Albemarle street, will see
that it was fairly written over and over half a dozen times. Poe was weeks
at " The Raven," but we need not multiply instances to prove the truth of
Sheridan's remark, that "easy writing's dashed hard reading." It is this
truth that we would impress upon Misses Blount and Sinclair. Do we say
their verses are "hard reading?" We do not. But we confidently declare
that they must work more patiently at their verses, they must read more
and reflect more, or they will never win the guerdon of the highest success.
We have promised that we would not seek for defects in these volumes, but
candor compels us to say that many of Miss Blount's and Miss Sinclair's pieces
appear to have been wrought as rapidly as garments are now made by the
sewing-jnachine — let us say Singer's, as the name favors the illustration — and
one or two expressions, which have struck our eye in turning over the leaves,
must be referred to, in the way of enforcing our lesson. Miss Blount is very
fond of the phrase "a bird of plumaged wing." It seems to be a pet phrase,
for she uses it in connection with her darling " Carrie Bell " (probably Sin-
clair), and it occurs more than once again in her volume. Now, it appears to
us that a little reflection would have assured her that a more unhappy expres-
sion she could hardly have hit upon. There is no such participle in the lan-
guage as "plumaged," and if there were, "a bird of plumaged wing" would
mean only a bird whose wings were feathered, and as all birds are winged
and their wings are always of feathers (the bat furnishes the sole exception,
and the bat is hardly a bird), the phrase " a bird of plumaged wing " is
tautological, and means no more than a bird after all. As a bird, it muat
A. E. BLOUNT AND C. B. SINCLAIR. HO
have wings, and these wings must be " plomaged." If she had said a " bird
of snowy wing," or " a bird of ebon wing," here a distinct idea would have
been presented to the mind. Again- we think a very little reflection would
have convinced Miss Sinclair of the bad taste of wishing to be her lover's
cigar (see page 37) ; either she would have omitted the poem, or wislied to
be his meerschaum cigar-holder. But wo must forbear. It would have been
a far more pleasant and easy thing for us to have bestowed unqualified praise
upon these poems, but this would have been uncandid in us and an injustice
to the authors, since they should be told of their deficiencies. "We should be
exceedingly glad to receive froni each of them, some months hence, a second
volume of half the size of these respectively, containing such better verse
in less quantity, as we think they could write, with greater care aiad severa
self-criticism.
WHAT THE MOON SHIl>rES OK
BY ANNIE R. BLOUNT.
A PRIZJS POEM.
Faces of beauty in festive throngs,
Lit up with music, and mirth, and songs ;
Eyes of bewildering, varying hue —
Seldom on spirits sincere and true — ■ ».
Jewelled bosoms and Parian brow,
Jesting salute and courtly bow
There, but alas ! not there alone.
Are some of the scenes that the moon shines on.
Soft falling veil, and a bridal wreath
Hiding a struggling heart beneath ;
Altar prepared, and a victim-bride,
Sacrificed for some kinsman's pride ;
Falsely vowing to love and obey.
While her truant heart is away, away ;
Her jewelled hand clasped in one more warm.
While close to her side stands an ninseen form !
Hark ! 'tis a spirit-voice she hears.
While her lashes conceal the coming tears;
420 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Is it the one which blessed her youth,
Ere gold had purchased her woman's truth ?
Nay ! 'twas only a moonbeam spoke
Words to a heart that was well-nigh broke :
Sad are the scenes I'm doomed to see,
Maiden, I weep while I gaze on thee.
A bower of roses — a youthful pair .
Learning their first love-lesson there ;
Soft hands clasped, and eyes cast down
To hide a blush, not a gathering frown.
Ah ! the moon would smile if she did not know
That human love so oft brings woe ;
That those who listen and most believe,
Must learn that the fondest ones deceive.
A coffin black — and a young bride there.
With the white flowers still in her shining hair ;
Her hands clasped over a bosom chill.
Where the diamond glitters proudly still.
Smiles on the lips, where the kiss of love
Is lingering yet, though they ne'er may move —
O God ! how they pray for a tone, a breath,
From the pale lips closed with the seal of death.
A pallet of rags in a corner lying,
Catching the breath of the faint and dying ;
No pillow to ease the aching head —
A pitcher of water — a crust of bread.
Curtains of rags of various hue.
Where the keen north wind comes whistling through
No watcher to tell when life's sands run out —
Only the moon on her midnight route.
No sound of music, no tone of mirth ;
A cold, bare room, and a clean, bare hearth ;
A handful of ashes, and children's despair.
Crying because no warmth is there ;
A. R. BLOUNT AND C. B. SINCLAIR.
Uncombed hair, and small naked feet
That have paced all day the snow-clad street;
Nursed by hunger, and want, and pain-
Asking for alms, but alas ! in vain.
A sickly light— an uncarpeted room,
Shrouded in poverty's darkening gloom;
No picture to brighten the naked wall,
Or gladden when tears unheeded fall.
A weary woman in want and dirt,
Singing again the " song of the shirt ;"
Wearily toiling for life— for bread,
"While the cold night lamps die out overhead.
A single candle of sickly beam —
Dreary abode for a poet's dream. !
A fair young maiden with struggling soul,
Breathing her life in a glowing scroll ;
rashioning thoughts that have filled her brain
With beauty that made her forget life's pain,
Imparting to paper a music sweet,
While her hands ghde over the snowy sheet;
Dreaming that he may read her song,
And sigh because of her early wrong ;
Catching in momentary, pause,
A far, faint sound of the world's applause.
But the hectic spot blooms on her cheek,
■^ And the hacking cough is low and weak;—
Tes • fame will come — lohen the willows wwde
Their graceful louglis o'er a nameless grave.
Hush ! 'tis the dice-box— oh ! no not there,
See the ghastly face and the wild despair !
The greedy clutch of the winning one.
The maniac glance of the wretch undone :
421
422 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Think of the ■weeping sister and mother.
Mourning the crimes of a son and a brother ;
Fortune, and truth, and honor gone.
Are some of the scenes the moon shines on.
Hark ! 'tis the sound of wild revelry,
The wine-cup sparkles and floweth free,
"Wreathed with roses, but bearing beneath
A hideous serpent whose name is — Death !
Hear the ribald jest, and the laughter loud,
And the boisterous mirth of a reckless crowd ;-
The moon smiles never on such a spot ; ■
Nor Virtue — her very name 's forgot.
Not there! — not there! — 'tis the gilded hall,
Where Satan gloats over our race's fall ;
Sin hides under that polished floor,
And faces are there that blush no more :
The painted cheek and lip arfe there.
Striving to hide the soul's despair. —
Oh ! the laugh which rings on the listening ear,
Is mirth from the whited sepulchre !
Stars of heaven ! I would not be ye.
Too dark are the scenes that you often see ; .
Moon ! I envy you not your light,
It falleth too often on woe and blight.
Perjured soul and a broken vow,
Crushed heart hid by a smiling brow ;
Sin-cursed soul, and. an oily tongue,
Gloating o'er tears from beauty wrung —
Virtue crushed down by iron heel.
Fortune with ever turning wheel^
Eaising proud vice to an earthly throne.
While the honest poor weep and die alono
A. R. BLOUNT AND C. B. SINCLAIR. 423
Secret crimes readied not by law,
Hearts where the canker-worms always jinaw —
Bridal favors — and funeral pall —
Watched by the God who loves us all :
These — and the tale is not yet done —
Are some of the scenes that the moon shines on.
DREAMING.
BY CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR.
Dreaming a dream of long ago,
Of a brow as cold as the winter snow ;
Dreaming of lips that pressed my own ;
Dreaming of joys that all have flown •
Dreaming of hands that lie at rest,
Over a cold and pulseless breast ;
Dreaming, idly dreaming on —
"What are these idle dreams to me?
Dreaming of eyes that meet my gaze
Through the dusky shadows of by-gone days;
Dreaming of words that filled my ear
"When the form of a lover lingered near ;
Dreaming of what he said to me,
As he clasped my hand on bended knee;
Dreaming of vows that then were spoken;
Dreaming of vows that now are broken ;
Oh ! what are these dreams to me ?
Dreaming of music half forgot.
That lingered one eve in a shady spot ;
Dreaming a dream of an olden time,
Filling my soul with its merry chime.
Dreaming again of by-gone years ;
Dreaming of smiles ; dreaming of tears;
Dreaming, idly dreaming on —
What are all these dreams to me?
424 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH
Dreaming now of the homestead dear,
Of the father who sat in the old arm-chair ;
Dreaming of soft blue skies that smiled
So lovingly there when I was a child ;
Dreaming of things that meet my gaze
Through the dusky shadows of by-gone days.
Dreaming, idly dreaming on —
What are these dreams to me ?
Dreaming of shady sunny bowers !
Dreaming of music, song, and flowers ;
Dreaming o'er tales of love I told
Ere my brow grew sad, and my heart grew old ;
Dreaming a dream by the moon to-night ;
Dreaming a dream, oh ! wondrous bright ;
Dreaming a dream as fair as truth,
Too sweet to fade with the hopes of youth.
Dreaming again of the homestead dear,
Of the pale, cold forms that slumber there ;
Dreaming of things that meet my gaze
Through the dusky shadows of by-gone days ;
Dreaming to-night of other years ;
Dreaming of smiles ; dreaming of tears ;
Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming on —
When will these weary dreamings end ?
LIZZIE PETIT.
Miss Petit was bom in Albemarle County, Virginia, in tlie
once flourishing little hamlet of Milton. She had just entered
upon her second year, when the family removed to an old home-
stead, some miles distant, which they called " The Petreat."
In a reminiscence of her girlhood, she says :
" ' The Petreat ' was a wild, gloomy and romantic spot,
which had the reputation of being haunted, and my first recol-
lections are of the childish curiosity and terror with which I
used to roam through the long corridors, empty rooms, and
large, dark closets, which the legends of my nurse had peopled
with phantoms. Both Milton and ' The Petreat ' are in ruins
now. The graveyard of the former place is the only inhabited
portion of the town; and of all the family who dwelt beneath
the roof-tree of the latter, not one save myself is left on earth.
Over my early life was cast the shadow of these influences, and
the brooding wings of memory too soon folded themselves
around a heart whose dearest pulse-beats were the requiems of
the loved and lost."
At the age of four years. Miss Petit was left an orphan.'
After the death of her best friend — the mother, whose tendei*
care had ensphered her from infancy — she and her grand-
mother abandoned the gloomy " Petreat," and went to reside
with her only surviving maternal aunt, who had been recently
left a widow. But her grandmother, burdened with the
supervision of a large plantation, and her aunt, rich, young
425
4ilG WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
and beautiful, were too mucli absorbed in tbeir own pursuits to
give to the rapidly developing child that wise watch and cul-
ture which her peculiar temperament demanded. At five years
she was sent to school, and soon became the " pet prodigy "
of her young teacher, whose loving discipline she will ever
gratefully remember.
l^aturally delicate, however, and the regime of the school-
room beginning to affect her health, she was soon removed,
and then commenced the free, wild, random life of her child-
hood.
" Brook Farm," the residence of her aunt, was situated in
the heart of the most beautiful scenery of Yirginia. Deeply
imbued by nature with romance, our author spent her time in
rambling, like a young deer, over hill and dale, and devouring
the miscellaneous contents of the old family library. Between
the years of six and twelve, she became familiar with writers
far beyond her range, floating sometimes on dangerous deeps
of impassioned poetry and romance, living in a world of her
own emotions, haunted by visions of ideal beauty, devoured
with longings for the brilliant future which her imagination
pictured.
At twelve, precocious in mind, heart, 2xA jpTiysique., she was
transferred to the care of an elderly relative — a widow and
childless, but quite remarkable for the tact and judgment which
she had displayed in the rearing of several adopted children.
" My venerable monitress," says Miss Petit, " evidently thought
there had been some serious errors in the training of her new
charge, and set herself to work to correct them with a vigor
and severity which, I fear, had quite the contrary effect."
She was then placed for a year or two under the excellent
guidance of Dr. White, a well known southern divine, then the
head of a flourishing young ladies' seminary in Charlottesville,
Yirginia. But the tameless spirit, which had been ripening in
LIZZIE PETIT. 427
a school of its own for so many years, continued to assert itself
and, at fourteen, Miss Petit entered society.
Merged in a sea of excitement, 8,11 systematic study was, of
course, suspended ; but as seasons wore away, and witli tliem
tlie first glamour of a social career — as our youthful belle found
her springs of pleasure yielding sometimes bitter waters — her
fair flowers withering as she plucked them — she addressed her-
self with a new zest to the culture of her intellect.
Under the influence of this mood, at the age of nineteen, she
produced her first book, " Light and Darkness," which was
published by the Appletons, had a large sale in this country,
was republished successfully in London, and translated into
French.
Li this book the author goes over the social ground she has
traversed, delineating fashionable life with the sharp and clear-
cut lines of one who has proved its follies and its perils. As
we read, the wonder grows that a girl of nineteen could be so
thoroughly the woman of the world — so perfectly aufait of the
artificialities and hoUowness, the by-play and intrigue of the
Jjeau monde. We cannot help feeling sorrowful for the veil so
early torn away — for the beautiful dreams prematurely dis-
pelled— ^for the fair young face and the old young heart. The
same regret is clearly an underlying current of the book. Our
author misses the sweet time of loaitiiig and watching, which,
by a delicate provision, reveals life step by step to the neophyte.
At the close of a lively chapter in this, her first volume, she
thus wearily moralizes :
" How the inner life mocks the outer ! Even as I write
these careless lines, I feel as if the spell of death was upon me ;
I seem to hear his stealthy footsteps in the dark distance, slowly
but surely coming. It straggles in my veins with the warm
bounding life-blood of youth. "Which shall triumph ? i!s this
death-shadow a dream or a reality? I gaze on the autumn
428 "WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
leaves as on a scroll wliicli memory lays open before me : telling
of briglit flowers dead in the pathway of life, as of Katnre ; of
bright hopes, dying even as these leaves, in a heart too early
doomed to taste the fruits of destiny. The breeze wailing
through the forest oaks, whispers, ' Passing away — all earthly
things are passing away ;' and I, loneliest of all earth's lonely
children, why should I stay ? A stray waif on life's wild
waters — a single blossom on a leafless tree, clinging dependent,
with naught to rest upon.
" The world courts our society — it woos our smiles, while we
minister to its pleasures ; while the gay laugh is on our lip, the
light word on our tongue, it is willing to share our gaiety, for
gaiety ever throws an atmosphere of warmth and sunshine
around it ; but the bitter tear, the moan bursting from a sur-
charged heart, these must be indulged alone."
One year after the appearance of " Light and Darkness,"
Miss Petit gave to the world another work, entitled " House-
liold Mysteries." This volume, prepared very hastily, upon the
impulse of her first success, is not quite in the line of advance,
but has been received with favor, and widely circulated.
Our author has now in preparation a " Society Novel,"
which she considers her chef d^muvre. It is to be called " The
Stars of the Crowd, or Men and Women of the Day," and will
doubtless contain something of personal interest to every reader.
Miss Petit deserves great commendation for her iintiring
and energetic industry. Thrown very early upon her own
resources, she has brought them all into action, and shown her-
self capable of a rigorous and self-denying application, of which
neither the wild days of her girlhood nor the gay, fashionable,
phase which succeeded, gave the remotest promise.
In consequence of an accident which imperilled her life, and
confined her for months to her bed, she turned her attention for
awliile to dramatic reading, and upon lier recovery, by the
LIZZIE PETIT. 429
invitation of some of our leading literary men, appeared before
a New York audience as a dramatic reader. The " 'New York
Tribune " thus notices the occasion :
According to previous annotmcement, and, "in compliance with the
invitation of many distinguished citizens," Miss Lizzie Petit gave a dra-
matic reading on Thursday evening, at Dodworth's Hall. The dollar
admission weeded the parterre of all seedy plants ; and the audience was
an elegant one. A pleasing feature in the programme was the introduc-
tion of various selections of light music, performed by Dodworth's band.
The entertainment consisted of two readings from Shakspeare, Bulwer's
poem "The "Wife's Tragedy," a translation from the Spanish, and one of
Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures. As a general truth, truism indeed, dra-
matic readings do sadly bore the listener; especially if the reader be a
woman. For if she has not a great and exceptional degree of dramatic
genius, she will be tame ; if she is fired by the genius, she will be ham-
pered by the restraint of the lecture-room, and the beauty of fitness will
be wanting in the performance. Decidedly the most agreeable of the
female readers are they who have a quiet, drawing-room style of delivery,
added to an attractive face and form. All enjoy the sight of beauty of
any species, but of feminine beauty most. And when one can have an
excellent excuse for sitting through an entire evening, gazing in a lady's
eyes, particularly if the eyes are brilliant, he will put severe criticism
behind him, and will be apt to go again. In this remark may be found
a hint of Miss Lizzie Petit's success. It will not be considered extravagant
praise to say, that she is superior to the countless majority of Shak-
spearean readers below Mrs. Kemble, Whereas in them we so often have
noise without anything more, in Miss Pettit we have no noise and much
beside. Agreeable in voice, winning in manners, charming in personal
appearance, and with the governing taste of an intelligent woman, she will
make a successful tour about the country as a public reader. She will
attract by her beauty, and will never repel by the coarse and corrupt elocu-
tion with which a suffering public has been too much tormented.
430 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
BENEDICK THE MARRIED MAN.
It was one of those fair, bright days, "which sometimes smile upon us in
that month of "cloud and storm," November. Over the ordinarily busy
eity of Grotham, reigned that solemn air of decorous quiet, which is peculiar
to the very atmosphere of the Sabbath. The lofty spire of Trinity seemed
to hide its head amid the fleecy clouds which hung suspended from the clear
blue sky ; as if it souglit to bear aloft the rich full notes of music, wliich
swelled through the- stately dome below. In one of the richly furnished
pews of the church, sat Florence Fulton and Judge Woodward. The head
of the latter was bent reverently, for he was a man of prayer, a man whose
religious sentiments were lofty, sincere, and open. Not so with h^s com-
panion ; her eyes wandered over rich velvets and waving plumes, over pious
saint and decorous sinner, and at last rested in a dreamy gaze on the stained
glass windows, while her ear drank in passionately the rich tide of swelling
music, which rolled in waves of melody through the dim arches and proud
old dome of Trinity.
She was aroused from her reverie by a slight stir in the aisle ; and the
next moment she saw Claude St. Julian enter a pew nearly opposite her own
— a lady of small, slight figure leaning on his arm.
Her features were concealed by the thick veil she wore, but when she
removed it after taking her seat, Florence saw that her face was fair, but
pale, almost to a sickly wanness ; her features delicate, but wearing an
expression of listless despondency, painful to look on in one young, and
otherwise pretty. She held by the hand a little girl of some five summers,
so fair, so bewitchinglj beautiful, and yet so fragile, so spirituelle in appear^
ance, that the eyes of Florence wandered involuntarily from the mother, to
gaze with delight, mingled with painful interest, on the child. It was the
face of an angel rather than a human being, and in that face were" mingled
aU the fairy tints of summer heaven ; the soft, serene blue of the sky in the
eyes ; the fleecy white, and the rose-tinged hues of the evening clouds in the
exquisite complexion ; and the golden tints of sunset in the shining hair. It
was a feast to the artist soul of Florence, to gaze on the unconscious
little being, as she sat there with calm, reverential look, her tiny hands
clasping her prayer-book ; her childish accents lisping the prayer, a halo of
innocence and loveliness encircling her. " Who could they be, that mother
and child?" for such was the position they seemed to occupy toward each
LIZZIE PETIT. 431
other. Perhaps the lady was a relative of Claude? perhaps she wag a
widow? and a jiang of jealousy shot through her frame; for everybody
knows wido vts are proverbially dangerous. She glanced at her dress ;
though grave, almost sombre in hue, it was not mourning ; and the next
moment she smiled at her own folly, in supposing for a moment that the pos-
sessor of that face — with its cold, marble-like features, and listlessly mourn-
ful expression — could fascinate tiie gay, degage St. Julian. Still she felfe
aroused within her all the latent power of that feeling, whose fatal indul-
gence in our first mother, lost Paradise to her unhappy children ; and wfi
fear the services of tliat day were of little profit to Florence. ISTor was
she the only one in that still, decorous crowd of beauty, wealth, and
fashion, by whom the solemn services they had nominally assembled to
hear, were unheeded. Many a velvet-robed bosom tlirobbed with feelings
far different from those of devotion — to heaven at least ; many a fair head
beneath its waving plumes was filled with far dififerent thoughts from
those which tlie place and the occasion should have inspired. Immedi-
r.tely behind that of Florence was the Moreton pew. It was in vain that
Eva endeavored to compose her thoughts into their usual serene, devo-
tional frame — in vain that she tried to listen with attentive earnestness to
those sublime truths, those divine doctrines of life and love, which gene-
rally awoke so deep an echo in her grateful heart ; with pain she felt her
thoughts revert to other and eartlily objects — to objects, too, upon which
she, alas! had no right to fix them. Before her was the man who had
awakened every feeling of love her young heart had ever known ; and
by his side was her rival, her regal charms set off to the greatest advan-
tage by the most tasteful and exquisite toilet.
" That adornment, rich and rare,
Which makes the mighty magnet set
la woman's form more mighty yet."
She had often heard Judge Woodward express his admiration for a
pretty hand. She saw the fair hand of Florence, whose delicate beauty,
and soft, creamy whiteness, seemed to woo the beholder to touch its vel-
vety softness ; she saw that little hand — upon which glittered a single dia-
mond of inten.se lustre — resting coquettishly on the crimson velvet cushion,
which enhanced its whiteness ; and she saw the eyes of Judge Woodward
riveted admiringly upon it. What wonder that the scene swam before
her, and a painful sickening sensation thrilled through her frame ?
432 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
And liad slie known how little Florence cared for being beside her,
aside from the gratification she felt at the open homage of so distinguished
a man ; had she known how few thoughts she gave him in return for tht
devotion he lavished ui:)on her, would it have afforded her any consola-
tion? No, she would but have felt more deeply pained, to see that
noble heart sacrifice its dearest feelings — those feelings so lofty, so deep,
so true, on an ungrateful shrine. She hoped that Florence loved him —
how could she help loving him? was he not the very man to call forth
the feelings of her proud ambitious nature ; to awaken the love of her
warm, enthusiastic heart ? And with one sigh for her own lonely life,
Eva bent her head on her cushion, and prayed fervently for his — for their
happiness.
The stranger lady noticed the eager, though not impertinent gaze, which
Florence fixed upon her ; and as she read the manifest interest expressed
in that look, particularly for the child, her pale features assumed more aa
expression of life. Claude, too, saw that gaze ; as he marked it, a shade,
half of haughty impatience, half of melancholy, swept over his features.
As they passed out, after the conclusion of the services, Florence, who was
on the qui vive, distinctly heard the stranger lady say, in soft, low tones :
"Claude, who is that beautiful woman who has just passed us?" His
reply was lost as the crowd moved between them.
Scarcely able to repress her impatience until they reached the carriage,
the first question of Florence then was :
" Who was that lady with Mr. St. Julian, at church ?"
" His wife. Have you never seen her before ? However, it is not
strange, she goes out so little."
"His wife!" almost screamed poor Florence. "Is Claude — is Mr. St.
Julian a married man ?"
" Certainly ! Is it possible you did not know it ? He has been — but par-
don me, you are ill ?"
" No, only a passing spasm at the heart, to which I am at times subject ;
it will be over in a moment," and she made a violent effort to recover her-
self; though when she spoke, her voice was changed, and she was pale as
death.
" How long has Mr. St. Julian been married ?" she summoned up nerve
to say.
" Oh ! some years. It was a boy and girl match, I believe. I am glad to
see Mrs. St. Julian out ; it is the first time I have seen her at church since
LIZZIE PETIT. 433
their return from Europe ; or rather since his return, for she did not accom-
pany him."
"Did not accompany him!" echoed Florence, almost betraymg by her •
eager questions the interest she felt. " Was he not absent several years ?"
" About three years, I think. Mr. St. Julian has not the reputation of
being the most devoted of husbands ; so I suppose the separation was not a
grievous one, to him, at least."
" And she — his wife — remained in New York ?"
" No, with her mother, at ISTew Haven, I believe. My dear Miss Fulton,
you seem interested in Mrs. St. Julian."
(" Mrs. St. Julian !" what a name that was to her.)
" No ! oh, no ! nothing but woman's curiosity," she replied, with an
effort at equivocation that caused her cheek to burn ; and pulling the check-
string, she desired the coachman to drive faster, though he was then going
at almost furious speed.
"What was the agony she endured in the eifort to suppress her feelings
during that short ride home ! When the carriage stopped at her own door.
Judge Woodward assisted her to alight, and was about to follow her into the
house, but she could endure his presence no longer.
"You will excuse me, I am sure!" she said, hurriedly. "I am quite
indisposed. Any other time I shall be happy "
" Of course. Judge Woodward regretted very much that Miss Fulton
found herself so unwell;" a stately bow, and he was gone; and Florence
breathed freer, and walked with a hurried step to her own room, locked her-
self in it, and hastily throwing aside her bonnet and mantle, as if their
weight was suffocating — so hastily, that in removing the former, she ptdled
ilown the whole mass of her beautiful hair, which fell dishevelled, but
unheeded, around her — she paced wildly to and fro the room for half an hour,
without pausing for an instant ; her hands clasped tightly over her throbbing
bosom, her lips and cheeks scarlet with agitation. How wildly the waves of
disappointment and despair rolled through her storm-tossed soul in that
wretched half hour can only be imagined by those impassioned beings, who,
like her, have staked the heart's most cherished feelings on the throw of a
single die — and, like her, lost. After the first torrent of emotion had sub-
sided, bitter regrets for the manner in which she had acted with Claude tor-
mented her already distracted brain. Had she not almost wooed him to her
side ? Had she not evidently in her manner showed the greatest preference
for his society — neglected, nay, almost shunned others, when he was near ?
28
434 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
had he not, during the short period of his acquaintance with her, been ever
by her side, and, though never breathing a word of love, lavishing a thou-
sand lover-like attentions on her J And what would the world say to this
marked flirtation with a married man ? But after all, with her" usual
haughty scorn for the opinions of society, she felt that the " world's dread
sneer" was nothing, compared with this sudden crushing of her deepest
feelings ; this total destruction of the bright hopes which one short hour
before were blooming so brightly and freshly around her. Bitter indeed
to her was the awakening from love's sweet dream of madness. The light-
ning blight had fallen on the enchanted garden of the heart's paradise,
blasting every bud and blossom there ; and now, what was left ? Her
heart refused to answer the question. Had he not already read her secret?
Though lip had not answered to lip, had not her eyes, her tell-tale eyes,
returned full often the lava flood-tide which had poured from his own
into her inmost soul ? Could she but forget it ; but sink into a deep,
dreamless sleep, to wake utterly oblivious of the past ; of all bygone hopes,
of all present feelings, fears, despair !
Such wild, incoherent thoughts as these, dashed madly and tumultu-
ously through her soul. There was but one resource on earth for her ;
the sparkling cup of pleasure yet wooed her fevered lip ; vanity still whis-
pered, " Drink, drink deeper still, of the magic draught ; it will bring
forgetfulness ; it must not be said that the proud Florence, . the trium-
phant, worshipped belle, mourns over a broken heart-dream." No, she
must be gay, proud, triumphant still ; yea, she must learn to look on him,
and tremble not beneath his gaze, thrill not at his touch ; and this was the
hardest task of all; could she ever accomplish it? Pride, prudence, all
Ihat was best and loftiest in woman's soul, must come to her aid. She
would avoid him ; she would school her look and tone, to be unto him as
unto others. And then^ when she had untaught her heart its passion-
dream, what then? She could not tell. All she knew was, that love for
Mm was guilt ; all she felt, was the horror of that word.
SALLIE ADA REEDY.
Among the promising yomig poet-women of the Sonth,
whose writings are eminently southern in manner and spirit,
Miss Reedj takes creditable rank. She began very early to
write verse in a tender and musical vein, but with far too
much earnestness for her years. Her recent productions are
the utterances of a more clear, and calm, and self-contained
womanhood.
A southern editor,* himself a poet and — ^his words would
seem to imply — a mystiG, writes thus of her :
" There breathes in all her writings an impassioned devo-
tion, intense and pure, with a simplicity tender and gracefuL
This is the true region of emotional poet-life — the human in
its warmest aspiration for the supra-human ideal. Her genius
is vigorous, and at the same time exquisitely feminine — ^look-
ing down upon life's struggling waters from woman's head-
land of catholic charity. Mystery — the nameless and never
told — often lends a spell, dreary yet delicious, to her muse.
But this characteristic is always subordinate to the wealth of
her creative faculty."
Miss Reedy is possessed of fine natural gifts, and, having
enjoyed the advantages of generous and careful culture, devotes
her future advisedly to the pursuits of literature. Her ver-
sification is easy and musical, and such of her works as we
have seen, bear full seeds of promise.
Her poems have been published in the various periodical
issues of the South, and are now collected into a volume,
which will appear simultaneously with our own.
* J. Wood Davidson.
4S»
436 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
THE BEIDAL.
They sat within the moonlight — in the moonlight, side by side,
Young Ferdinand, the princely, and his newly promised bride ;
You would have thought them lovers, for the dark waves of his hail
"Were mingled with the golden ones that made her brow so fair,
And in those floating tresses, like bright angels in repose,
"Were the flowers that he had gathered when the evening star arose ;
It was a place and season fit for fairy, god, or elf.
And you would have thought them lovers had you never loved yourself,-
Never stood with one most precious 'neath the quiet evening skies,
And thought the angels envied you the love-light in her eyes ;
By all the mem'ries clinging round that unforgotten one,
Without a vain interpreter your heart had quickly known
That woman never laid a hand, as cold and calm as hers,
Within the hand that Love had made its guide through coming years.
Oh, Ferdinand ! some angel should have told thee to beware,
Of the lips that speak so calmly when the soul is in despair ;
Thou may'st tell thy heart's devotion with a look and tone divine,
With her ringlets on thy bosom, and her small hand pressed in thine:
But by that quick convulsion — by the pallor on her brow,
She has heard that language spoken by a dearer one than thou !
You may woo her to your mansion — you may win her for your bride,
And yet between her soul and thine there is a burning tide.
And down within the darkened depths of that unholy stream.
Is lying, cold and beautiful, the wreck of one bright dream.
She sat within the moonlight — in the moonlight there alone,
Without a tremor on her lip, though Ferdinand was gone.
Gone with a bright love in his heart that could no warning speak
Of one who scarcely felt his kiss upon her pallid cheek.
Oh Woman ! when thy lover goes and leaves no throb of pain.
Be careful of thy promises when ye have met again !
She raised her small hand to her brow — a hand so soft and fait,
And gently took the roses from her long and dewy hair ;
She smiled — a smile not all of hate, nor yet of hope and trust,
It came again when those bright things were trampled in the dust.
SALLIE ADA EEEDY. 437
Hast ever seen a jewel into glittering fragments crushed?
Hast seen a harp-string broken, and its silvery music hushed ?
So looked the lovely lady when that fearful mood was past,
And those sweet tears were blessed things, although they were the last ;
So looked the lovely lady then, for pride a recreant proves,
Whene'er despair unto the heart speaks of the thing it loves.
"My beautiful wild dream ! — my Claude !
How can I see thee thus depart.
And let a cruel world defraud
Of all but this poor breaking heart!
Can sterner duty's proud command
Restrain a soul that will be free.
Or can I live for Ferdinand
When I would rather die for thee !
•* That voice since childhood had been sweet,
Until he knelt one summer day —
I would have spurned him from my feet,
But that his head was turning grey.
I cannot tell thee of his theme —
I would not think it over now,
It seemed so like a troubled dream
That only left, a troubled brow.
" They tell me I will love thee less
In the dull future that must be —
That time will teach forgetfulness
Of all that I have lost in thee !
The lip is false that tells me so,
False as my own has dared to be,
When giving Ferdinand a vow
My heart can only keep for thee.
" Yon star that thou hast made so dear,
Is going down, and it must see
The last fond look — the last wild tear
That I will give to love and thee.
438 WOMEK OF THE SOUTH.
My beautiful wild dream — depart ! \
I may not hear tlie tale you tell —
They've chosen out a dull, hard part,
And I must learn to act it well.
*' When Ferdinand's bright jewels glow
Amid the tresses of my hair,
If this heart trembles can he know
A faded rose is nestling there ?
And if, perchance, I hear thy name
Prom lips more careless than my own^
He'll see my pallid cheek, and blame
The wind that has unkindly blown.
** Thus, hour by hour and day by day
Will come that slow and steady change,
And when they mark a sure decay,
The'U weep, yet scarcely think it strange.
It is a common thing to see
A woman with a careworn brow,
And they will never think of thee,
Or of my poor heart's broken vow."
**My beautiful, wild dream !" — she pressed her lips to silence then,,
For suddenly the vesper star went down upon that scene,
All silently and radiantly as if its parting beam
Had caught the farewell lustre of that lady's dying dream.
And when that signal star was bright once more on sea and land
Bhe stood beneath a chandelier, the bride of Ferdinand.
Bring pity for that fair young thing — in all her after years,
Bhe will not know a joy so sweet as last night's holy tears.
Bring pity for the fair-haired Claude! — he will not soon forget
His love for one whom it were well if he had never met,
But oh ! for him whose loving heart will beg for love in vain,
Pray that his faith in human truth may lovingly remain ;
Poor Ferdinand ! — ten thousand joys can never once relievo
The heart that doubts the only one 'twas blissful to believe.
4 ./ ' Jt V
'^^
'*'" '"v^**"
^^;^
C_ B.Richardson.
L. YTRGINIA FKENCH.
Mks. French is descended from leading families of Yir-
ginia and Pennsylvania. Ske was born on the eastern sliore
of the " Old Dominion," at the fine old country seat of her
maternal grandfather, Captain Thomas Parker, an officer in the
army of the Revolution.
Deprived, at a very early age, of her mother, a gentlewoman
of rare beauty and excellence, she and her sister were sent to
Washington, Pennsylvania, to be educated under the care of
their grandmother. Guided and guarded by this truly estima-
ble woman — ^to whom our author confesses herself indebted
for her best points of character — they completed a course of
study at the female seminary of tliat place, and graduated
with the first honors..
In proof of Mrs. French's early success as a writer, we
remember an incident related of her school-days. During the
exercises which completed her seminary course, as she rounded,
in clear, musical tones, the last sentence of her " graduating
composition," a hrusque gentleman from Connecticut exclaimed,
" Wlio's that ?" Upon being told the name and birthplace of
the youthful graduate, he responded, bluntly, " Well, they say
' no good can come out of Nazareth,' but here's something good
out of Wise's district." As Mr. Wise and the mother of the
now blushing young Yirginian were connected by some family
ties, this spontaneous tribute was received with much merri-
ment.
489
440 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
In 1848, Yirginla and lier sister returned to their father's
house. But a new spirit was rife in the old home ; its Larea
and Penates had been displaced, and the two sisters, ever united
l)j the tenderest ties of sympathy, felt the bond tighten and
strengthen, as, hand in hand, they determined to go forth into
the world and shape their own destinies. Before the close of
the year, they were established in Memphis, Tennessee, aa
teachers.
Strangers in a strange city, they put themselves bravely to
their self-appointed work, and by their energetic perseverance,
no less than their personal and intellectual charms, soon won
the confidence of all.
Having achieved a social and tutorial position, the elder
sister began to turn her attention to literary pursuits, contri-
buting occasional articles to the journals and magazines of that
region, under the name of " L'' InconnueP This signature soon
attaining a good degree of distinction, her compositions were
solicited by northern as well as southern periodicals, and the
way to literary advancement lay open before her.
In 1852, she became associated with some gentlemen of Kew
Orleans in the publication of the " Southern Ladies' Book."
On the 12th of January, 1853, she was married to Mr. John
H. French, of McMinnville, Tennessee, a gentleman of fortune
and irreproachable life, whose qualities of mind and heart are
in fine sympathy with her own. The train of incidents which
led to their acquaintance, reads very much like a romance.
A poem by " L'lnconnue " — called " The Lost Louisiana " —
appeared one morning in a ISTew Orleans journal, and a news-
boy, making his daily round past the St. Charles, came upon
a stranger, whose air of " elegant leisure " and intelligence
betokened, to the boy's keen eye, a gentleman of taste. He
commended the poem at once by name, caught the stranger's
attention, and secured a customer.
L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. . 441
There ^vas more potency in the "^ords, " Tlie Lost Louisiana,"
than the boy imagined. Kot long before the catastrophe which
the poem commemorates, the stranger liad lost all his "worldly
possessions by a collision between the " Louisiana " and the
" Belle of Clarksville." He was a passenger on the latter boat,
with a valuable stud of horses, a large amount of money, and a
number of servaiit men, when the crash came, and only escaped
with his life. Witli this sad cause of interest in the afterward
ill-fated " Louisiana," he clipped the poem — ^after reading it
many times over and noting, curiously, the signature, " L^In-
Gonnue " — and bestowed it carefully in his pocket-book.
ISTot long after, he took passage on a steamer bound up the
Mississippi, and during a short detention at Memphis, went into
a book-store in search of something to relieve the tedium of the
voyage. While there, his attention was arrested by the familiar
name of " Zi'loiconnue,''^ and an intimation that the fair incog-
nita was just then passing. He turned — gave one look into the
blue eyes that met his like the eyes of a Fate, and the steamer
continued her course up the Mississippi without the stranger in
whose pocket was turning " The Lost Louisiana." An intro-
duction was soon after effected ; L'lnconmie was merged in Mrs.
L. Yirginia French, and removed with her husband to McMinn-
ville, Tenn., where she now resides.
Her home is described as a most fitting haunt for the Muses.
Tlie Kashville " Home Circle " says of it : " Situated on a grace-
ful eminence, to the right of the main thoroughfare leading to
the village, it is surrounded by a grove of stately oaks, through
wliich may be had a glimpse of the house and tastefully culti-
vated grounds environing it. On the east, the waters of a
winding river approach within a stone's thi'ow ; while beyond,
at a distance of three or four miles, runs the main chain of the
Cumberland mountains. Taste, comfort, and picturesque
scenery, conspire to make lier residence wliat she calls it — a
442 . WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
* Forest Home.' Here our author is leading a retired, studious,
and happy life."
In 1856, Mrs. French published a collection of her poems
under the title of " Wind Whispers." Her poetry, like that of
Mrs. Yertner Johnson, would seem to be the natural outflow of
her exuberant and harmonious being. We sit down to analyze
it, and find ourself floating away on a tide of rippling rhyme —
forgetful of all but the delicious motion, and the silvery
"tintinnabulation." Yet many of the poems of this writer
reveal under-currents which require only the hissing bolt of
circumstance to stir them into crested billows of feeling and
expression.
Since the publication of the volume " Wind Whispers," Mrs.
French has written a series of metrical " Legends of the South,"
Bome of which are finely imaginative and graphic. She has also
published a tragedy in five acts, under the title of "Iztalilxo,
the Lady of Tala." Some touches in this drama are slightly
suggestive of " Ion," and " The Lady of Lyons," but there are
passages of great beauty and dramatic force, which are alive
with the author's own spirit, and prove her sufficient unto
herself We clip a little notice of this tragedy from a Southern
paper :
. The scene of " Iztalilxo," is laid in tlie " Land of the Sun," the country of
Mexico, when the strange people, the Tezcucons, ruled over its wealth-teem-
ing mountains and plains, and the daring foot of Oortez had, not yet
printed its strand. The little volume is full of impassioned poetry, and'
Bome of the scenes are highly dramatic. The third one in the fourth act
is finely sustained, but the meeting in the cypress grove between the
two lovers, victims to the "love that fate forbids," is replete with tenderness
and beauty. We can hardly choose between so many beautiful passages, any
particular one to quote ; but there is one that only a woman could have
written. Iztalilxo has said, "I wish " and then hesitated and paused, and the
adoring prince exclaims :
L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 443
■» Thy ' wish ?'— oh tell me, love .'
Hadst thou thy dearest wish, what would it be ?
A throne — an empire — nations at thy feet —
Gold like the sands upon the beaten shore —
Honors — or Fame to sound thy gentle name
Down ages yet to come — which should it be ?
IzTA. Not one of all these ! I would be best loved
Of all that have been, or shall ever be !
Prince. Why, that's a woman's wish, and well fulfilled
Long ere 'twas uttered, when I show the world
Its ruling empress —
IzTA. Stay ! I crave not that :
The empire I would have is one sweet home
With two hearts dwelling in it : I'd not seek
To sway but one, for that is all the world ! "
And we cannot help thinking that this " wish " is the dearest one in the
heart of her, who makes a paradise of "Forest Home."
Mrs. Frencli has sufficient material, prose and poetry, for
two otlier volumes. Her prose is instinct with the poetry of
her nature — spirited, pointed, and rhetorical. She has sent us
but one specimen, and that a brief review of Le Vert's " Souve-
nirs of Travel," which has been copied and re-copied, deservedly,
into the best papers of this country and England.
She is not only a large contributor to the current literature
both of the I*Torth and the South, but has succeeded Mrs. Bryan
in the editorial charge of " The Crusader," of Atlanta, Ga.,
while we hear her everywhere cited as one faithful to all the
responsibilities of the woman, the wife, and the mother.
Among the poems which afford fine glimpses of our author's
imaginative power and range, we subjoin " The Legend of
the Infernal Pass," "The Lost Soul," "Alone," "The
Ghouls."
" The Miserere of the Pines," and " Unwritten Music," are
full of soft, soughing melodies and meanings. " One or Two,"
444 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" The Long Ago," and " Ttie Little Brothers," reVeal the true
TToman.
THE LEGEND OF THE IKFERNAL PASS.
" About sixty miles south of Santa Fe, in the mighty range of the Sierra Blanca, there is a famous
gorge, some fifteen miles through, called ' El Caiion Inferno,' or the Infernal Pass, where rise stupen-
dous masses of rock piled upon rock, until the traveller sees at the top but a narrow strip of sky,
wxiile around him all is involved in chaotic gloom." The white steed alluded to in the tradition, is
stUl said to be seen at intervals by the warriors of the Camanches. He is represented as of exceeding
beauty and vigor, but of such swiftness that, notwithstanding the daring efforts of those most
renowned in the capture of the wild horse, he has never yet been brought within range of the lariat.
In the white man's tent, on the far frontier,
At the fall of the faded leaf,
'Mid the pale-faced followers of the deer,
Sat an old Camanche chief;
And the sigh of the wailing wind swept hj,
Through the troubled autumn sky.
They had passed thro' the " Canon " wild that day,
And they noted a solemn spell,
As they entered the toilsome, darkling way,
O'er the red man's features fell,
For a sound came u^ through the ravines grey.
Like a wild steed's shriUy neigh.
The men leaped up at the thrilling sound,
For their toiling mules moved slow ;
But the chief cast a wary glance around.
And his guarded tone was low,
- As he bade them haste, while the kindly sun.
Looked down in the gorges dun.
And then, when the evening camp was set,
And the hunters rest had found —
When all in the deer-skin lodge had met.
They asked of this mystic sound ;
And the chief, while his bronzed cheek grew pale.
Thus told them the fearful tale :
L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 445
" Pale sons of the eastern ocean's foam,
'Twas before your fathers came,
To take for their own the red man's home,
And to give his hills their name,
That the bold Camanche held this land
"With a high and mighty hand.
" My nation dwelt on the prairie-plain —
Their wigwam fires shone bright ;
Their children played in the waving cane,
And the mother's heart was light,
And the father's sonl like the bended bow
On the hills of long ago.
" In those old days, by the snake-like pass
That down through the mountain creeps.
Where grows the spotted and sunless grass,
That a dew of poison weeps —
In a huge cave-cleft of the rifted stone,
A stranger dwelt alone.
" !N'one knew the name of his father's raee,
Or from what far land he came ;
He went not forth on the hunter's chase.
Or the warrior's path of fame.
But often the cavern rocked and rang
Tq a hammer's sounding clang.
" He roamed through the savage glens that lie,
'Mid the giant rocks up-piled,
"Where a shining ore from the sun-god's eye,
Lies hid in the ravines wild;
And. the towering, misty shadows form
The midnight's bellowing storm.
" Like some tall tree on the waste alone,
Was his stern and lofty mien ;
It told of a power not yet o'erthrown,
And it suited that desert scene.
446 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH,
And his voice, like a trumpet, seemed to roll,
From fathomless gulfs of soul,
" He loved a maid of my kingly race,
And he sought her for his bride,
But the Eed-bird shrank from his dark embrace,
And his den on the mountain side.
From his offered love she turned and fled,
For her heart grew sick with dread. '^n
" Her sire looked on with knitted brow,
Full scornfully he smiled,
And said, ' Shall the cawing, carrion crow.
Be mate for the eagle's child ?
In our eyrie fallen, we know not whence —
Let the children drive him hence !'
" But a vengeance- vow on the wind had passed —
A flame on the night had shone.
And the hoofs of a snow-white steed struck fast
On the mountain pathway lone.
And they say that steed from the cavern won
Was the Machinito's son !
" His neigh to the wind rose wild and high
(Thou rider bold, take heed).
With the stag's fleet foot he bounded by,
That beautiful demon-steed !
But the glare of his eye the soul had shook,
With its terrible human look I
" The camp was roused at the break of day,
By a frantic shriek upborne
On the passing wings of the dawning grey.
Through the silent hush of morn,
And the warriors armed them for the fight
By the morning-star's pale light.
" Away ! away ! 'tis the demon steed,
And his trampling shakes the grove —
L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 4'i'J
Afar ! afar ! at a fearful speed
The night-hawk bears the dove !
But the eagle brood are on his route,
With a fierce, triumphant shout.
" O'er hill, o'er vale, for many a mile.
By a hundred braves pursued,
The steed and rider fled the while,
With a courage unsubdued ;
The maiden's friends may toil and strain.
But the dark-mouthed pass they gain.
" The rider here at his utmost need,
When the goal was almost won,
Half-checked, in mid career, his steed,
StiU steadily bounding on.
And shook his spear at his gathering foes,
That over the summit rose.
" An arrowy flight on the darkened air
A shriek, and a fearful bound,
The dart thrilled deep in her bosom fair.
And the Red-bird fell ! Around
Her lover the fire-darts fall like rain,
The prize he may not regain.
" For the steed dashed on as that flinty floor
Had been soft strewn with flowers.
His nostrils smoke, and the red flames pour
Around in burning showers ;
Away ! away ! from his stifling breath,
Away ! for he speeds to Death I
" 'Tis o'er, bold rider I and didst thou shrink
From his neighing wild and loud.
When thy snow-white steed on the horrid brink,
Dissolved in a snow-white cloud ?
From the black corse rose a mad'ning yell
As down through the gulf it fell !
448 WOM EX OF THE SOUTH.
" They found the sweet Red-bird pale and cold,
And softly her maiden grace
They laid to rest in the flower-crowned xaold,
By the graves of her ancient race.
Where bright o''er her bosom the wild rose springs,
And the wood-dove sits and sings.
" Yet often I, in that dreary glen,
Where the sunbeams dare not play,
Have heard the shouts of pursuing men,
And a wild steed's startling neigh ;
And hasted on with a nameless fear, '
From the danger prowling near.
*' Some bold Oamanche who skims the plain
On the prairie-courser's track,
In his camp may ne'er be seen again —
From the chase he comes not back.
Woe ! woe ! to him whom the spirits lead
To follow the path of the phantom-steed !"
LEGEND OF "THE LOST SOUL."
After midnight I was In'iled tn sleep by the melancholy notes of a bird, called " El Alma Perdida,"
or the Lost Soul. Its wild and wailing cry from the depths of the forest seemed, indeed, as sad and
despairing as that of one without hope. The story in the Inca language runs somewhat thus : An
Indian and his wife went out from the village to work their chacra, taking their infant with them.
The woman went to the soring to get water, leaving the man in charge of the child, with many cau-
tions to take good care of it. When she arrived at the spring she found it dried up, and went further
to look for another. The husband, alarmed at her long absence, left the child and went In search.
When they returned the child was gone ; and to their repeated cries, as they wandered through the
woods in search, they could get no response save the wailing cry of the little bird, heard for the first
time, whose notes their anxious and excited imagination " syllabled" into pa-pa, ma-ma (the pre-
sent Quichua name of the bird). I suppose the Spanish heard this story, and with that religious
poetic turn of thought, which seems peculiar to this people, called the bird " The Lost Soul."
Herndon.
Ha ! what a frenzied cry
tip the lone forest isles comes sadly wailing,
Now quick and sharp — now choked with agony.
As sight and sense were failing.
L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 449
The far stars coldly smiled,
Down througli the arches of the twilight wood,
Where sire and mother sought their child,
In the dark solitude.
And low the phantom wind
Came stealing o'er the hills with ghostly feet
But paused not in its flight to bear one kind,
Soft echo — shrill and sweet.
O'er them the giant trees
All proudly waving tossed their arms on high,
Yet no loved baby-voice from 'midst of these,
Answered their broken cry.
But one sad piping note,
That strangely syllabled a blended name,
As seemed its cadences to fall or float,
From boughs above them came.
The mother started wild.
As that strange sound the forest foliage stirred,
Then hastened to the sire — she knew her child,
In that lone spirit-bird.
ifo word the father spake :
His face was ghastly, and its haggard lines
Lay stern and rigid like some frozen lake
O'ershadowed by its pines.
Shuddering, she strove to speak.
Once more in nature's strong appealing tones
To supplicate her child — ^there came a shriek
That died in heavy moans.
The night came down, afar
Was heard the hoarse, deep baying of the storm,
And thunder clouds around each captive star
In black battalions form.
29
450 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Kow, all the mighty wood
Has voices like the sullen sounding sea,
"While onward rolls the deep, majestic flood
His surges solemnly.
The massy foliage rocks
Slow swaying to the wind ; and, failing fast,
Embattled oaks that braved a thousand shocks
Are bending to the blast.
And crimson tropic bloom
Lies heaped upon the sward, as though a wave
Of Summer sunset streams within the gloom
Had found a verdant grave.
Down came the rushing rain,
But far, perchance, where thunders never roU,
The bird hath flown, the parents called in vain,
Upon the wandering souL
Then feebly 'mid the maze.
Of 'wildering storm, their feet the cabin sought,
Oft turning back to search with blinded gaze,
For that which now was not.
True, true — the tale is old,
And full of sorrow the tradition hoary,
Yet daily life's unwritten annals hold
A sterner, sadder story.
Oh ! hear ye not the cry,
That every hour sends up where thick life presses
That shrieks from lowest depths to God on high
From life's great wildernesses ?
It is the cry of "Woman,
And hers the really lost and wandering soul,
Seeking amid the god-like, yet the human,
/
To find her destined goal.
■s^r
L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 451
Like glacier of the North,
Her pure and shining spirit braves the sea
Of Life and Action — drifting, drifting forth,
On waves of Destiny.
"Deep calling unto deep,"
How raves the ocean by the tempest tossed?
Perchance her onward course the soul may keep,
Perchance 'tis wrecked, or lost.
Perchance some other heart
In pride of Being standing firm and free,
May call, " Oh ! seeker of the ' better part,'
Come, wanderer, to me!"
Alas ! that dulcet tone
Is but the hollow music of a shell
That mocks the Ocean ; yet, the pilgrim lone
It wins as by a spell.
The dream, the dream is past —
Perchance some careless word, some fancied wron^
The soul is driven forth — oh ! woe the last,
The weaker by the strong.
From her closed lips a moan
Goes up — yet seems it her unspoken prayer
Falls back again upon her heart — alone
To sink and perish there.
And then her spirit pants
Beneath the heat and burden of the day.
Still struggling on amid the vulture wants
That make her heart their prey.
Still, in its source of pain
Clinging most fondly ; and in her holy trust
Pouring its worship in a worse than vain
Idolatry on dcst :
.452 WOMEN OF TEE SOUTH.
Like the great organ rocks
That rise on Orinoco's distant shore,
She sends rich music o'er the wave that mocks,
Yet answers her no morfe !
From the still firmament
. A star drops — sparkles — and almost before
The eye can note, is gone — with Chaos blent
Its brilliancy is o'er.
And thus with thee — unknown,
Unrecognized, and lost in earthly clime.
Thy 'wildered soul may wander, and alone
from the shores of Time, ■
Yet far in yon blue dome,
Where dwell the spirits of the dear departed.
There thou art known ; and they will welcome home
An angel — broken hearted.
Then courage, weary one !
Work while thou may'st — for though thy spirit, riven,
Is fading like a fountain in the sun,
Exhaled, it reaches Heaven !
UNWRITTEN MUSIC.
Dost thou not hear it? 'Tis upon the breeze,
And by the brookside, in the forest aisles.
And far away where cloud and sunshine meet
In the deep azure sky. The symphonies
Of Spring are gushing fervently and free.
As early orisons from the pure hearts
And lips of childhood. From the valley green.
Where wave the slender willows, upward steals
The low, clear tinkling of the rivulet,
As though it mocked the roving zephyr's search
L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 453'
For its sweet hi(ling-p]ace. The bird and bee
Sing to the blossoms, and their minstrelsy
Calls forth the queenly rose, as erst the lay
Of bard was wont to herald the approach
Of beauty to the tournament. On high
The sky-lark bathes his bosom in the clour!,
And every tiny drop within it thrills
To his glad melody, as thrills the hearts
Of some vast multitude of listeners
"When Sweden's song-bird sings.
Around the eaves
Flits the young blue-bird, and the little wren,
"With its loAV, piping note ; the humming-bird,
Bright as a flying rainbow ; while afar,
From the deep everglade, comes up the call
Of sweet- voiced dwellers in the solitude.
"Where the dark cedar flings its mossy boughs
O'er the white-crested dogwood trees, is heard
The winding of the locust's tiny horn ;
"While from the beechen grove the katydid
Sends forth her merry challenge. At the mom
The gay grasshopper, with his fairy fife,
Sounds a shrill reveille ; and swift at eve
The elves come trooping to the beetle's drum : '
Then, when the thunder, with its organ-swell,
Peals through the dome of heaven, how softly fall
The footsteps of the rain, like to a band
Of gentle worshippers, slow entering
The temple of the Lord.
Oh ! what a world
Of heaven-descended music lies around
Our daily pathway! in the morning air,
The noontide glory, and the dewy fall
Of dusky twilight — in the carollings
Of bird and breeze, the murmur of the leaves.
And the low-gliding streamlet ! Can we note
454: V/OMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Their many-braided melodies ? or give again
Their spells of song to thousands ? None, not one ;
And yet the poorest slave may revel in
This music, written by the hand of God.
ALONE!
List I my soul, as the night- wind drear
Wails for the dead leaves, pale and sere.
On the bleak earth strown ;
Sighing and shuddering, faint and cold,
As the maniac-miser's cry for gold.
It shrieks and sobs o'er the midnight wold —
Alone! alone!
Look ! where the vagrant wild-fire's light,
Flitting away through the shadowy night,
O'er the grave is thrown ;
A lurid gloom in the dismal haze,
Now light, now lost to the dreamer's gaze.
It fades — it dies in the ' wilder ed maze —
Alone ! alone !
Hist ! from the depths of the haunted well
Rises a signal dread and fell :
At the sullen moan.
The crumbling walls o'er the waters shake ;
And the spotted toad, and the slimy snake,
In their beds of lichen quail and quake —
Alone ! alone !
Far to the verge of a lonely glen.
By the fox's lair, and the ban-wolf's den.
Sweeps the wizard tone :
It summons the ghoul from his charnel-bed,
Withered, and gibbering, and demon-fed,
To the path of doom — (and away he's sped,)
Alone! alone 1
L. yiiiGixiA FUEXcn. 455
Tu-whit ! tu-whoo ! 'Twas the mousiug owl,
Keeping his watch by an altar foul,
On the Druid-stone :
He hides from the prowling vampire-brood,
Deep in the gloom of the mystic wood,
And cowers down in the solitude —
Alone ! alone !
Croak ! croak ! 'Twas the raven's cry :
'Mid the bough of hemlock dank an-.l high,
His fiend-eye shone. '
To the night-hag hid in the blasted tree,
As lone, as weird, and as fierce as he,
Came the chant of his mocking prophecy —
Alone ! alone !
Hark ! what a writhing, stifling sound
Slowly creeps from the murderers' mound,
Like a victim's groan :
Too dread to rise on the wind's wild swell,
Deep through the cypress-shadowed dell
Echoes the murmur hoarse and fell —
Alone ! alone !
Up ! my soul, from this charnel gloom,
Which binds thee down to a living tomb
With an iron zone :
Up ! my soul, on the homeless tide
Of a dark existence, wild and wide,
To doom and destiny proudly ride
Alone ! alone !
MISERERE OF THE PIKES.
There's a voice upon the hill-top, and a song within the vale ;
Fairy carols in the woodland, spirit-whispers on the gale ;
A merry mermaid chorus in the ocean's sparry caves,
And a bold, triumphant psan from the ever-tossing waves ;
456 woMEisr of the south.
But sweeter to my spirit, when the autumn day declines,
Comes the stately, solemn, swelling miserere of the Pines.
There is music in the morning, there is harmony at eve,
In the rich, fantastic overtures the boughs and breezes weave ;
Dreamy melody at noontide from the wiUow-hidden rills,
Or the hunter's bugle sounding on the far-off, breezy hUls ;
But when round the brow of midnight red the starry Serpent shines,
I love the stately, solemn miserere of the Pines.
When the firefly beacon glitters thro' the twilight everglades,
And the birds have sunk to slumber in the woodland colonnades,
Comes a murmur like the wild-bee, in the meadow-lily's bell,
That deepens to the thunders of an organ's rolling swell,
As the night- wind, creeping slowly thro' ten thousand leafy tines,
"Wakes the stately, solemn, swelling miserere of the Pines.
The Palm, in sensuous beauty, and the Oak's defiant pride,
Bow, as the banded tempest sweeps the forest-phalanx wide ;
But the keen mid- winter wind, upon the ocean's rocky shore,
Calls forth from out the dark pine-grove a mimic surge's roar ;
And, as the serried waters pass their storm- embattled lines,
Seem marching to the stately miserere of the Pines.
Funeral anthems float far down the dim cathedral nave.
Where crested Valor's marble form lies shrouded for the grave ;
But not so proud a dirge is his, as that which echoes wide
Above the pilgrim lone who perished on the mountain-side.
As thro' the wild witch-hazel tree that o'er his rest reclines.
Steals on the solemn, swelling miserere of the Pines.
Oh ! many a thrilling melody at midnight revels free,
And music at the day-spring sounds her hymn of jubilee ;
But like the tlioasand echoes that awake within the heart —
Strong in their very gentleness, a blessing to impart
By bringing buried jewels from the spirit's secret mines —
Is the stately, solemn, swelling miserere of the Pines.
I.. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 45*
THE GHOULS.
" Two terrible spectres called the ' Searchers of the Grave,' in the creed of the orthodox Moham-
medans."
Tramp ! tramp ! to a ghostly tramp
Echoed the churchyard dark and damp :
Slowly swung as the hinges grate,
Shrieking folded the iron gate :
Sullen sounds from the belfry fell,
Muffled moans from its brazen bell ;
And spectres twain have crouched beside
The new-made grave of a murdered bride.
Tramp ! tramp ! on the marble meet
The hollow clank of their skeleton feet :
A rattling clasp of their bony hands,
And each of the other his health demands.
" "Whence and whither?" 'Twas Moukir spoke,
His voice of fear on the midnight broke ;
But no reply, save a sidelong sneer.
Cast askance with a hideous leer.
The other deigned him. Then suddenly,
In a gibbering spasm of fiendish glee.
He sang : — his feet on the turf kept time,
To the hollow chant of a weird old rhyme :
'"Whence cometh Nakir? — where slaves in their glee
With shouts rend the air round a tall gallows-tree,
"Where the corpse of a murderer swings to the night !
And whither goes Nakir ? — ^his hurrying flight
Seeks out the fair victim who perished in woe
At her blood-ended bridal ! She slumbers below.
" They have given us two : the dark minion of pride
And the blossom he trampled — the beautiful bride.
That night to his chamber, all senseless and wan.
They bore her young lover, a palsied old man
458 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
He woke in the morning : the days -will be few
Ere the arrow has sped, and he slumbers here too.
" From a region of dread, from a realm of despair,
We journey afar on the highways of air ;
And we come with a suUen, dull-echoing tread.
To lead a wild measure — the dance of the dead,
Where the prince and the peasant, the guilty and gay.
Are gathered at last to their dwellings of clay.
*' They brought from the palace with anthem and prayer,
The icy remains of the new-christened heir :
The sire was dejected, the mother grew wild,
As the clods clattered over her beautiful child :
The grass scarcely over the low grave had crept
When again it was opened — ^the pale mother slept.
*' They brought the proud maiden, despoiled of her bloom,
They laid her to slumber in silence and gloom ;
Her snow-sculptured bosom, so pulseless and cold,
All quietl}^ pillows the gathering mold :
No gesture of loathing, nor shudder, nor start,
As the worm nestles down in her passionless heart.
" They brought the grim despot, bereft of his throne ;
In tyranny, terror, and triumph he shone :
Alas! for the reptile assuming to sway
A sceptre of dust over creatures of clay !
They bore out his ashes with riotous glee,
And his knell was their psean of wild jubilee.
" They brought the dead miser, so haggard and cold,
Whose life was a libel, whose god was his gold :
All careless they gossiped, as over the stones
In the rumbling old death-cart they jostled his bones;
And e'en the dull blind-worm, it loathed him when dead.
And turned from a banquet so meagrely spread !
L. VIRGIMA FRENCH. 45S
*' They brought the pale scholar : for glory in vain
His wrung spirit tortured a feverish brain :
He shrank from the rich, he avoided the prond,
He stood all alone in the revelling crowd:
He struggled for honors — no honors for him ;
And the gaunt eye grew glassy, the life-star grew dim.
*' The warrior-chieftain went forth in his pride :
His love was dominion, his sword was his bride :
'Twas a wild battle midnight — the foray was vain —
A festering corse he was left on the plain,
And famishing vultures, they ate out the eye
That flashed with defiance when summoned to die.
" The brow where ambition has planted a crown.
Pale Luxury pressing his pillow of down,
The image of Beauty, the idol of Fame,
Will shudder and shriek at our terrible name ;
Yet ho ! for the banquet ! the king and the slave
Alike are the prey of the 'Lords of the Grave!'"
MADAME LE VERT'S "SOUVENIRS OF TRAVEL."
It has been said that the " very word genius comprehends all the loveli-
ness of woman. It signifies but the power to feel deeply, combined with an
intellect capable of embodying those feelings into language, and of conveying
its images of truth and beauty, from the heart of the writer to the heart of
the reader." If this be so, then is Madame Le Vert eminently a woman of
genius ; and to be convinced of this fact, one has only to read her delightful
"Souvenirs." Her book is like herself, and she is a "•cewi, vidi, vici,^^
woman. She disarms all criticism, and to know her is to love her. Her
fair open brow, like her warm heart, is the abode of sunshine, and the glance
of her eye is calm, and kindly, and pure as that of the freshly gathered vio-
lets that oft-times sleep upon her bosom. Her voice comes welling up in a
rich " clouded contralto " — tones that are the very music of the heart. Soft
as the dreamy lull of chiming waters — low, like the singing of the summer
winds, steals upon our spirits the sweet music of her words. In her manner,
460 WOMEN or THE SOUTH.
cordial, simple, natural, and self-possessed, she is equally above the parvenu'.'
pretensions, and beyond the necessity of art. ■ She possesses, too, in an emi
nent degree, that "philosopher's stone " of pleasing— 4)aWe«jr. And, indeed,
so fresh, so deep, so fall of mystical witchery is that "infinite variety,"
that in any degree to illustrate it, we must borrow the language of s
modern writer, who, when he would describe a sentiment, which he feV
to be indescribable^ said, "It is like the eye of the woman first loved t'
the soul of the poet !" The world has, for the most part, been bright to
her, and for this her soul bows in child-like reverence, and pours forth
its rapturous gratitude to Him who has cast her "lines in pleasant places,"
and given to her the "goodly heritage" of happiness. Beauty always
wins its way ; it needs neither introduction nor apology, and so every-
where admirers have gathered around her "thick as leaves in Yallam-
brosa," till her warm, impulsive spirit, feeling the blessedness of being
loved, carols forth like a bird amid the dawning, its love, its ecstasy, and
its gratitude.
As is the woman, so is the volume before us. It is a work that proves
how the highest cultivation of the intellect may be ennobled by the warm
sympathies and tender affections of our nature. She writes as the bird
sings, because its heart is gushing over with melody ; she writes as the
flower blooms, because it is bathed in dew, fanned by the breeze, and
kindled up by the sunshine, till it bursts its inclosing petals, and lavishes
its fragrance and sweet life upon the air. She receives, as it were by
intuition, the idea of the ancient Greeks, that the whole universe is a
*' Cosmos " of beauty and order, and this she presents to the reader not
as a pleasant theory, but a sublime truth. And yet, at times, as if to
prove how truly she is woman, a faint shadow lies upon her heart, and
is reflected upon the page — telling that she has entered the temple of
memory, and passing by little graves at the thi-eshold, still guarded by
love and sorrow, her spirit treads silently the hallowed chamber of tears.
Prejudiced by no sectarian dogmas, influenced by no sectional jealousy,
she opens wide the portals of her heart, and folds the whole world of
humanity in her loving and kindly embrace. "With her a humane electi-
cism has taken the place of a partial creed — she looks upon all her race
with an " infinite pity and infinite love," and, therefore, the arts, litera-
ture, society and systems of all countries, through which she has jour-
neyed, are kindly viewed and liberally intei-preted. Beneath her mental
wealth the affections exist in proportionate strength, and tiiey come gusli-
L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 4.Q\
ing up it every call of sympathy, and tinge all her creations with hufs
of beax^iy, as the sun flushes the rainbow into life, by waving his light
through the soft-dropping shower. That reverence and devotion to her
mother, which shines so beautifully through her daily life, is here as
tenderly portrayed, and forms an illustrious example to the young of our
land, for in general they are but too prone to neglect to pay that homage
and duty to the aged which is only their just and rightful due. The
woman who has given to America such a daughter as Madame Le Yert,
should never be forgotten.
As to Ihe literary claims of the work before us, it is just what .it
purports to be. While it exhibits the strength of the author's mind, the
wonderfully retentive power of her memory, and the extent of her acquire-
ments, it is not overcrowded with the embellishments of standard pens,
and has nothing of the tinsel of the pedant, or the trickery of the rhe-
torician. The style is easy, unostentatious, and natural. It is rich, in
incident, the descriptions are vivid, and the anecdotes charmingly told,
and yet there is no lahoring for effect, and a delightful air of sincerity
pervades the whole, tinged with the couleur de rose of enthusiasm. She
speaks from a fall heart of the beautiful in Nature and Art, of old
and stirring associations, of social traits, and of the welcome of friends ;
and in all kindness and honesty, endeavors to share with others the
delightful impressions which she has enjoyed. All that history has chro-
nicled, and poetry consecrated, come from her pen flushed with the rose-
glow of her enthusiastic nature.
It is interesting to compare this work with those of other modern
isoyageurs : with Taylor and Headley, for instance, or with Mrs. Beecher
Stowe, the piquant "Bell Smith," or rich, rare, and racy Grace Greenwood.
Especially do I love to contrast the " Souvenirs " with " Haps and Mishaps."
The one is a saucy, dashing brunette, who provokes you into admiration ; the
other a gentle, graceful blonde, who, ere you are aware, steals your whole
heart away. There is a wild, almost wicked little sprite of northern antag-
onism which peers out upon you from behind the " thick-coming " beauties
of Grace Greenwood's book, and which reminds one forcibly of that elfish
little " Pearl " who comes peeping at you through the tangled mysteries of
the "Scarlet Letter." This is a charm in our gifted northern country-
woman, for it is characteristic — it would not be natural to our southern
queen, and consequently you see nothing like it. In no one instance is this
contrast better illustrated than the manner in which each speaks of " His
462 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Holiness," the Pope. Grace has " white spirits and grey," and some of them
of an elfish origin, half imp, half angel. But M'me Le Vert's angels are all
angelic, her fairies are all " good fairies," even the humhlest are merry-
hearted, kind little "Brownies," who delight to bear forth blessings from the
'•kind woman who gave bread to the hungry," in the streets of Igiialada.
Many extracts have been made from the " Souvenirs," yet strange to me
it seems, that the most glowing and eloquent portions of the work have not
been quoted. The limits of this article will not permit me to make extended
extracts, yet I cannot forbear mentioning a description of Vesuvius, rich and
glowing as its own lava, and another of the Coliseum as beautifully sad as is
that noble ruin itself. Speaking of the latter she says, " The Coliseum is
fast crumbling away; Rome has fallen from her early grandeur; but the
world progresses more proudly than ever, for that fair and glorious land
beyond the broad Atlantic has been added to the treasures of time — that
unrivalled land, the birth-place of Washington and of freedom, which seems,
'Pallas-like, to have sprung from the head of Jove,' with all the knowledge
of departed centuries, and the experience of long buried nations." Then
there is a morning on the Pincian Hill, and an evening with the Brownings,
the glorious portraiture of Moonlight in Venice, and the sweet and sad fare-
well to Italy, while over the pictures of little Raffaello, the Lazzaroni boy,
and Matilda, the humble protegee of- Miss Bremer, no one can restrain their
tears. But the sweetest sentence in the entire work, because revealing so
fiiUy the whole "inner life" of the author, is found among her parting
words, when at Havana she bids adieu to her loved ones in the new world.
"Should this," she writes, "be the last line my hand ever traces, may the
memory of me never awaken a pang in a human heart, but linger around it
Eke the aroma of precious flowers." In this, and the sentences following^
are embodied her whole creed — love to God^ and good will toward men.
Surely do I believe that the " Golden Eule " of her life is this, so to live
as never to awaken a pang in any human heart. Oh, that the whole
world would adopt her blessed creed, then would earth indeed become a
paradise !
Some one has said that " to be a good traveller, argues one no ordinary
philosopher." Then is Madame Le Vert a philosopher indeed— the " world-
pencilling " Pfeiifer is not a greater. A south wind seems to be always pass-
ing over her spirit. Her serenity seems proof against all petty vexations,
she smiles at occasional imposition, and good-naturedly abides by all the
"■ ills " that voyagers " are heir to." Ever ready, in her urbanity of soul, to
L. VIRGINIA FREXCE. 463
recognize the " good in everything," she passes over the ill, dwells upon'the
agreeable, and unfolds for us the "silver lining" of every cloud that floats
athwart her sky. She is the true traveller, one who has learned to reverence
Nature, to appreciate genius, and to love humanity. And more — she has
nothing of the self-sufficiency and prejudice which distinguish too many of
our modern noyageurs ; such as are so finely satirized in " As You Like It.*'
8ays Rosalind, "farewell, monsieur traveller — look you lisp, and wear
strange suits, disable all the benefits of your own country ; be out of love
with your nativity ; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola."
On the contrary, travel has only made Madame Le Vert more in love with
her "nativity," — it has but deepened her sense and pride of nationality.
She has found the name of an American everywhere an honorable passport.
It is a fresh and hopeful name — its associations are of freedom and progres-
sion. And so, surrounded by the bold magnificence of Alpine heights, amid
the solemn ruins of old Imperial Rome, mingling in the royal pageantries of
England, and of France, she looks back upon her native land, consecrated to
liberty by the genius of Washington, and exclaims with an exultant joy, "T,
too, am an American ! "
And it was this deep sense of nationality, as well as the generosity of her
nature, which prompted her to bestow so liberally from the sales of her work
to the noble purpose of the Mount Vernon Association. Like the tolling
bell of every vessel that passes by Mount Vernon, her heart-throbs give out
a monrnfal music to the memory of him who slumbers there. And thus it
will be always with her. She will ever be giving utterance by word or
action, to the beautiful and generous impulses of her nature. The clay of
which we are made will never be able to check the sweet, gushing fountains
of her soul. She gathers around her here all that the world can give of
purity and brightness, and we know that when she passes through the portals
of the far-away spirit-land, she will bear with her no remembrance of earth
save those of its beauty and its bloom.
MART E. BRYAK.
It was no part of our plan to give prominence to writers wlio
are not, in the accepted sense, authors ; but Mrs. Br jan has con-
tributed so essentially to the tone and stamina of southern
literature, and her productions are so vital with the quality,
generally considered indigenous to the colder clime and rougher
soil of our " liorthland," we feel that it would be defrauding the
South to withhold a full recognition.
Mrs. Bryan, the daughter of Major J". D. Edwards., a
respectable and influential planter, is a native of Florida. Her
childhood was much given to out-door sports and exercise, to
horseback rides through the wild woods tliat surrounded her
home, and dreamy roamings from one favorite haunt to another
— ^face to face and heart to heart always with ISTature. To this
free life and these healthful habits, she may trace, in a great
measure, the sturdy vitality which marks her writings.
Until the age of twelve, she was educated entirely by her
mother, whose fine endowments eminently fitted her for the
work. Hoping, then, to secure for her still greater advantages,
the family removed to the place afterward so well known as
" Woodland," near Thomasville, Georgia. With the additional
facilities aff'orded by this change, our Vv^riter made rapid pro-
gress in her studies, and, during four years of close application,
advanced steadily in culture and discipline.
"While yet a mere school-girl, she met her " destiny," in the
son of a wealthy planter of Louisiana, whom at sixteen she
MARY E. BRYAN. 465
nmrried, and accompanied to liis large plantation on the Red
River, La.
One year after, under the pressure of pamful circumstances,
she returned to her father's house, where, in a long interval of
comparatively aimless life, she began to write for the press.
Her vigorous articles at once challenged attention, and she
was soon secured as a regular contributor to the " Literary and
Temperance Crusader," a weekly journal then published in Pen-
field, Ga. From three to five columns of this paper were filled
every week with her strong prose and richly imaginative poetry.
Curiosity was piqued and admiration excited. Many were the
queries concerning the young writer who, in her secluded home,
remained quite unconscious of the distinction she was winning.
Li 1859, the " Crusader," enlarged and improved, was
removed to the city of Atlanta, Ga., and Mrs. Bryan accept-
ing the charge of the literary department, left her home, to find
in the arduous duties of editorial life full outlet for her energies.
The vigor and originality which fhe brought to the work at
once gave a distinctive character to the " Crusader." Her ver-
satility enabled her to cater successfully to the diverse tastes of
the public, and to meet all the contingencies of her position
with promptness.
Each issue contained a strong leader, one or more spicy
articles, and a sprinkling of hon.mots — all her own — while not
unfrequently she would add to these a story and a poem. The
amount of mental labor which she performed during this year
is almost incredible. Yet she sustained herself unfiaggingly,
reaping her reward in the success of her efforts and the con-
sciousness that she was doing what she could, through this
medium, to speed the right and ban the wrong. Many of her
poems and pithy essays found their way into northern and
western periodicals, and were spoken of in terms of high com-
mendation.
30
466 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
At the close of the year 1859, Mrs. Bryan was called home
by the delicate health of her mother, and finding herself in
need of rest, determined to resign her position as editor, and
accept the less responsible one of contributor to the " Southern
Field and Fireside." She had been engaged in this capacity,
with her usual success, for four months, when the cloud, which
had so long brooded over her, was lifted, and a way opened for
her return to her western home.
While we rejoice in this more cheerful view of the life of the
woman, we trust that the intellect, which has shown itself, thus
early, so strong and comprehensive, will continue to demon-
strate these characteristics in the old way. Already Mrs.
Bryan has written enough— -in her best vein — ^to fill more than
one volume ; and now that she has retired for a time from
"regular service," we at least hope that she will collect
these waifs, and give them " a local habitation and a name " in
literature.
The specimens* which follow show the remarkable versatil-
ity of this writer, and may be considered a fair presentation of
her various styles, if we except the dramatic power revealed in
her novelettes, no one of which chances to be in our possession.
In the essays, " Hunger is Power," " How Shall Women
Write," and " Give us Men," we find a masculine grasp and
vigor, which it is difficult to reconcile with Mrs. Bryan's youth,
and the exquisitely womanly feeling apparent in the sketch,
" Cutting Eobbie's Hair," or the tender poem, " My Missing
Flower ;" while in " The Hour when we shall Meet Again," and
" Lost in the Clouds," is revealed a lofty and sustained imagi-
native power which belongs only to the true poet.
Most excellent gifts has Mrs. Bryan in her keeping. To cut
and burnish them to their possible perfection, making every
* The preface will explain why aeveral of these were omitted.
MARY E. BRYAN. 467
point to refract and reflect ligbt, is a work of years, wliicli we
are sure slie will not neglect.
Confirming our own estimate of this youthful genius, we
give below the opinion of a distinguished writer in the extreme
South (Florida), and an extract from the eclectic columns of the
" Boston Transcript."
Says the southern writer:
Mrs. Bryan's versatility of genius is the result of a rare combination
of perceptive and reflective faculties. The surface of life, with all its
varying phases, is apparent to her ready perception, while her penetra-
tive intellect is busy with the pearls that lie beneath. Through all her
prose, occur flashes of poetic thought, while her poetry is alive with true
inspiration. In this her idealistic faculty is plainly apparent, as well as her
love of nature and her power of perceiving in objects termed inanimate,
that indwelling spirit of conscious life, constituting their higher beauty. As
an illustration of this, " The Naiad's Gift," though it has no pretensions to the
loftiness of conception that distinguishes her more important poems, impresses
one like a pure and clearly-cut crystal.
We clip the following from the " Boston Transcript :"
Though very youthfal, below twenty still, Mrs. Bryan is already
widely known through the South as editress and writer, being in fact
one of the favorite authors in that portion of our country, the produc-
tions of her pen ever winning a hearty reception from a large circle of
readers. But she has scarcely been heard of among us as yet. When we
consider her youth, the great disadvantages she must have labored under,
on an isolated plantation, far from public libraries, and far from social
groups of professed literary laborers and artists, it seems to us that her
poems reveal the aspirations of a richly-endowed and earnest genius, and
the marks of a good range of culture.
If with the best models of literary art constantly in view as guides
and inspirers, she will strive with that heroic patience of toil which is
the price of all greatness, to store and perfect her faculties, to extend
and deepen the grasp of her experience, and to master the plastic secrets
of style, we predict for her a brilliant and permanent place among the
gifted and victorious of her sex and land. But our prophecy falters with
468 WOMEN OF thu south.
heavy misgivings when we remember how very few out of the multitude
of wealthy poetic natures, with happily organized brains and delicately
attuned sensibilities, possess that indomitable tenacity of will, that per-
severing, assimilative, self-fired and self-criticising application to study and
practice, required to conquer the disheartening obstacles in the way of
Eterary art and experience, and to win the prize of enduring fame.
Thousands aspire ; hundreds fitfully struggle ; scores meritoriously work ; one
OT two here and there, through all consecrating devotedness of toil, succeed.
Nevertheless, genius, as it naturally rallies a noble courage within,
should always be generously recognized and cheered from without. That
the fair young authoress of Florida, who sings from amidst the myrtles and
magnolias of her father's plantation on the banks of the lovely Ocklos-
konee, deserves such . recognition and encouragement, we think every one
who reads " My Missing Flowers " will admit.
CUTTING ROBBIE'S HAIR.
And so this little household flower of ours must be shorn of some of its
superfluous beauties. Even roses and geraniums must be pruned sometimes,
and these uncut, silken rings, with the golden sunshine of three summers
entangled in their meshes, must make the acquaintance of scissors at last.
■ Grandpapa says so, and adds that if it is not done shortly, the low plum
boughs will make another Absalom of Robbie, sometime, when the blue-eyed
gander is in hot pursuit.
There is no denying that the curls need trimming ; they are too many and
too thick, and they make the little head droop uneasily to one side, like a
half blown moss rose-bud under the weight of its own moss, and straggle
sometimes into the month and eyes. Yes, they must be cut ; but it seems
such a pity ! Little curls that we have twined around our fingers when all
wet from the morning bath ; little curls that we have played with while
singing the evening lullaby ; little curls that our tears have fallen upon when
the baby eyes were shut in sleep ! Ah ! only mothers know how dear such
curls are to mother's hearts.
Here are the scissors. Robbie must sit very still now while his hair is
beijig cut. Why, sir, why do you smile and look at me so beamingly with
your blue eyes ? How do you know that I am not going to cut oft" that saucy
head of yours with these great, sharp, cruel scissors ! Ob, holy faith of
childhood ! If we could only trust our God a.s implicitly as babes do their
MARY E. BRYAN. 469
motliers ! " Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the king-
dow of heaven."
Be very still, now, while I comb out these threads of shining floss. The
mother is the first barber to her boy ; no other fingers can perform the sweet
office so gently ; but when fifteen or twenty years have flown, rougher hands
will comb and cut these locks, all bronzed by suns and winds, and clustering
above the brow of manhood. The white-aproned, clean-handed barber will
then arrange them in the latest style of trimming; pomading, perfu , no^
my boy will not be a dandy ! by these strong limbs and the sturdy look in
those eyes — no.
But to think the down of manhood will gather on this cherry upper-lip
and on chin and cheek, dimpled as though by the touch of an angel's finger 1
To think that this round neck of alabaster will be choked up with a man's
necktie, and these lily-bud feet will wear high-heeled boots and . Faugh !
I will not think of it. I cannot realize that this fair baby of mine — but three
summers out of Paradise, and still smiling in his sleep, remembering what
the angels said there — shall ever be so metamorphosed.
And yet the boy's babyhood is rapidly fleeting, and the severing of these
ringlets seems like cutting the golden thread that links his infancy to his
childhood. Oh! Robbie, I can call you "baby" but little longer. You
blue-eyed elf! yon are already rebelling at being treated as one. You had
rather run, now, after your painted wagon, than lie in your rose-curtained
crib and hear me sing of the baby whose cradle was the tree-top, and whose
nurse Avas the wind. You will not wear your corals, because grandpa sayg
they are for babies, not for men; you had rather hunt hen's nests than play
bo-peep ; and when I hold out my arms to you, as you stand in the doorway
twirling your hat, you turn your head on one side, like a half-tamed bird
a-perch on one's finger, while your dancing eyes seem to say, " You'll see —
you'll see. I'll soon take flight ! " Pretty soon you will not believe in the
wolf that talked to Red-Riding-Hood, and lose faith in Santa Claus.
I cannot keep the bud in its sheath ; I cannot stay the little bark that
slips so rapidly down the hurrying stream of life. Soon, the rill will broaden
into a river, and the realm of roses and sunny skies be passed. And the gold
of these ringlets shall be dimmed by time, and the roses, perchance, drop
from these pretty cheeks, and sorrow and sin, it may be, cloud the clear,
blue heaven of these innocent eyes !
There ! I am crying. How grandpapa would laugh if he caught me, and
say it was because I wanted the curls to stay and make a girl of his boy.
470 WOMEN or THE SOUTH.
See ! There are tears glistening in these sunny clusters of hair, like dew
among the golden-blossomed jasmin vines, and your eyes- are looking at
me with wide-opened wonder, and your red lip beginning to quiver with
ready sympathy. Oh, Eobbie ! even if the worst should come, and I should
have to lay this bright head, ^^'ith its locks of undimmed lustre, under a
coffin-lid, and see the grass grow between my darling and the bosom he once
slept upon, I should still thank God for having given him, for having crowned
my life with the holy blessing of motherhood ; for it is such little arms as
these around our necks, Eobbie, that make us feel strong to do and to suffer ;
it is drawing such little heads as these close, close to our breasts, that keeps
the hearts of some of us mothers from breaking
There ! that is grandpapa's step upon the stair — and the task is just com-
pleted— the little lamb is shorn. Look at this bright heap of glistening sUk,
such as Persian looms never wove into richest fabric. Here is " golden
fleece " for you, such as never the lover of Medea sought. You did not know
that such a glittering wealth grew on your little head — did you, blue-eyed
baby?
No, you must not clutch it with those destructive fingers. Go — grand-
papa is calling you — ^let him see his little man ; but leave me these — the first
curls cut from my baby's head. I WiU put them away to remind me, in
other days, of his sweet, lost infancy.
THE HOUR WHEK WE SHALL MEET AGAIK
When shall it be?" I see thy red lip now
Tremble with the low spoken question, and thine eyes
Search mine, until I feel the hot tears flow
To the repressing lids. I answered then with sighsj
But I am stronger now — the hour is past,
And the blue billows of a tropic main
Break between thee and me. Look up ! — at last
I'll answer thee. Aye, we shall meet again.
Not in an hour which any tongue of Time —
Brazen or silver — may ring on the air.
Not when the voice of streams in joyful chime
Summons young April — shaking from her hair
MARY E. BRYAN. 471
Clusters of scented hyacintlis, moist and blue
As thine own dewy eyes ; nor when the shade
Of whispering elms, of summer ripened hue,
Bathes my hot brow in some sequestered glade ;
For when the autumn clusters of the vine
Hang purple in the sun, and the faint breath
Of brookside asters, and the moaning pine
Alike— and sadly— prophesy of death ;
Nor when I droop my weary head, as now,
IJpon my hand, beside the winter. hearth —
Shall thy quick step, thy kiss iipon my brow
Make me forget that ever grief had birth.
No, never more shall sunlight's golden sheen,
For the pale stars — a weird and watchful train —
For yet the moonlight — chilly and serene,
Look on the hour when we shall meet again.
Yet we shall meet. Listen ! One winter day,
Standing where late the gentians were a-bloom,
You said when life's red current ebbed away,
That we should, like the flowers, sink to a tomb
Of dust and nothingness upon the breast
Of earth, whence we had drawn our sustenance,
And that the sleep would be eternal rest ;
And then you met ray anxious, upward glance
And smiled, and said that the mysterious scheme,
Which in the world's dim ages priests had spun,
Of life beyond, was but a dotard's dream.
And I believed you, for you were' the Sun
To my unbudding soul ; but that is past.
• I have talked with my soul in the still hours,
And, with bared brow, prayed in the temples vast
Which Fature rears, and when the dreaded power
Of Death had stamped pale foreheads, I have knelt
To catch the meaning in the dying eyes ;
And so have solved the mystery, I have/eZi
Your teachings false ; the spirit never dies.
472 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
There is a world beyond, and we shall meet —
The thought falls like a dead flower on my heart
Meet onl^ once — at the dread Judgment Seat,
Olasp hands, look in each other's eyes and — parf.
sind part Jbrever ! Oh! by all the years
My soul has kept thy memory enshrined,
By all my burning prayers, and by my tears,
And by the love to long despair resigned,
I charge thee let that single glance be kind^
Full of unuttered love as dying breath
Breathed out in kisses — when the arms entwin'd
Shall soon be severed by the grasp of death.
The gulf that then shall part us, is more deep
And dark than death. Oh ! let that last look b©
One of immortal love, that I may keep
Its sacred memory through eternity.
MY MISSING FLOWER.
The day has glided past us, like a bark —
A fairy bark on an enchanted sea ;
And now its gold and crimson pennon fades
In the far West, and the pale stars look forth
To teU us that the day has sailed away
Into the mighty ocean of the Past,
And shall return no more.
How fair it was :
With all June's balminess in its soft breath,
And April's liquid azure in its skies — ■
Soft as the eyes of cradled babes that lie
And smile through transient tears. The earth has wake':
From its long winter dream, and beckons now
For Spring to come and crown its sun-kissed brow
With rosy chaplets. She will come, I know ;
Her herald, the swift swallow, has proclaimed
That she but lingers in the tropic's bowers
MARY E. BRYAN. 473
To weave a riclicr garland for her brow,
And ere long slie will braid the leafless vines
"With gem-like flowers, and write her magic name,
In golden daisies on the emerald turf,
And yonder skeleton oak shall gaily toss
Its green and fragrant tresses in the breeze,
And feathered misers, in the clustered leaves, •
Will hide their jewelled baskets brimmed with pearls,
Each round, white pearl, fiUed with a little heart,
That shall awake to life, to joy and song,
"When April sheds her last, sweet, childish tears
On May's maturer bosom.
'Twas a day
To call up olden memories, for the spell
Of its mild loveliness soothed the sick soul
To blissful dreams, and fancy wandered back
To childhood's fairy land, and strung again
Bright memories on the silken thread of thought,
As erst in youth, beneath the maple's shade,
We strung forget-me-nots on silvery grass —
Each sound that — like a pebble softly dropped
Into a full and tranquil lake — has broke
Upon the dreamy quiet of this day —
The chanticleer's shrill crowing, the light laugh
Of gleeful childhood and the western wind,
Playing a summer tune among the pines,
Has filled my soul with sadness, vague and sweet,
Like that which steals across the heart that lists
To faint, far music at the midnight hour.
Is it because Spring's first and halcyon days
Were childhood's carnival, that they thus wake
Such dreams and memories?
The young Spring marks
Her earliest footsteps in the violets, sweet
As her own nectared lip, and I, to-day.
Have marvelled if this balmy breeze has found
474 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Any wild violets in its wanderings
By stream and field, hill-side and sheltered glen.
Their breath has mingled strangely with my dreams,
And their blue eyes have haunted me all day,
Minding me of this time one year ago,
And of the tiny hand that brought wild flowers
And laid them on my open page, and claimed,
As the reward, a kiss pressed on the lips
Of dewy crimson that were raised to mine,
While the small feet stood tip-toe, and the curls
Were thrown back from the baby-brow, and bright
Glowed the young cheek, fresh from the kisses sweetj_
Of the spring breezes.
Ah ! my little boy,
The Spring shall come with all her wealth of flowers,
Df singing birds, sunshine, and whispering leaves,
Old the blue eyes of violets, 'neath the sky,
.-HaU. open everywhere, but no dear hand.
Dimpled and soft as a half-budded flower.
Shall gather Spring's first ofierings from the fields,.
And lay them on the page o'er which I dream ;
No wondering eyes shall shame my falling tears ;
No red lips kiss them from my burning cheek.
My little one, I dream, in the long night,
That thy small fingers on my bosom lie,
Soothing as was their wont, my throbbing heart ;
I stretch my arms to clasp thee, and I wake
To know that thou art far away, and weep
In utter loneliness, longing with all
A mother's passionate love, for the low voice,
In scarce articulate murmurs, to repeat
My name and say some tender, broken words,
Dying away, as sleep asserts her reign,
And lays her finger on the parted lips.
Ah ! Spring may pour her vernal treasures forth
IJpon. the sunny hills, and fill the trees
MARY E. BRYAN. 475
With warbling birds ; but mine sings far awaj —
I may not hear his song.
Flower of my life,
Sole blossom of its blighted spring — my boy
Whose sunny head a mother's gentle hand
Laid on my bosom, while I was almost
A child myself in years, may this young Spring
Whose coming quickens now the pulse of earth,
Eiss no fair roses into life, whose bloom
Shall vie with those that opened on thy lips,
And flushed thy dimpled cheeks ; may thy pure eyes
Know but such gentle tears as violets weep,
And when each night thou kneelest, at this blest hour-.
Beside my mother's knee, whom thou call'st fhine^
May thy own absent Mary's name be breathed
In thy pure orisons, and when sleep shuts
Thy innocent eyes, may the kind spirit of dreams
Bring some sweet memory of her, who first
Cradled thy head upon her beating breast.
ANNA PEYRE DINNIES.
Every successful writer is identified with, some one produc-
tion— book, essay, or poem — wMch. either struck fitly upon an
epocn, or, what is better, touched a cliord in the great common
beart. Hence we call one author, " Proserpine," another,
"The Sinless Child," another, "Babie Bell," another, "Beulah,"
anotbef, " Yarana Yane," another, " Uncle Tom's Cabin," etc.
Of Mrs. Dinnies, it is always said : " She wrote ' I could Tiome
stefmmed Misfortunes Tide.'' "
Anna Peyre Shackleford, the daughter of Judge Shackle-
ford, of Soutb Carolina, was born in Georgetown, in that State,
but removed soon after, witb her parents, to Charleston, where
she was educated at the school of the Misses Pamsay. These
gifted daughters of Dr. Ramsay, the historian, seem to have
possessed either a very happy tact in developing the poetic
faculty in their pupils, or to have been blessed with an unusual
proportion of poet pupils.
In 1830, Miss Shackleford married John C. Dinnies, of St.
Louis, Missouri, and there resided until their late removal to
New Orleans.
Mrs. Dinnies' poems were first given to the world under the
signature of " Moina." She writes with much force, fervor,
and tenderness, and never fails to reach the heart, of her
readers.
In 1846, she published a work entitled " The Floral Tear,"
an elegant, illustrated volume, embracing a hundred poems,
assorted in groups as bouquets for the twelve months.
476
ANNA PEYRE D/NNIES,
THE WIFE.
I could have stemmed misfortune's tide,
And borne the rich one's sneer.
Have braved the haughty glance of pride,
Xor shed a single tear ;
I could have smiled on every blow
From life's full quiver thrown,
"While I might gaze on thee, and know
I should not be " alone."
I could — I think I could have brooked,
E'en for a time, that thou
Upon iny fading face hadst looked
"With less of love than -now ;
For then I should at least have felt
The sweet hope still my own
To win thee back, and, whilst I dweifc
On earth, not been "alone."
But thus to see from day to day,
Thy brightening eye and cheek.
And watch thy life-sands waste away,
Unnumbered, slow, and meek;
To meet thy smiles of tenderness.
And catch the feeble tone
Of kindness, ever breathed to bless,
And feel I'll be " alone."
To mark thy strength each hour decay.
And yet thy hopes grow stronger,
As filled with heavenward trust, they sa,,
Earth may not claim thee longer ;
2«ray, dearest, 'tis too much — ^this heart
Must break when thou art gone ;
It must not be ; we may not part ;
I conld not live " alone !"
'm
478 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH,
LOVE'S MESSENGERS.
Ye little stars, that twinkle high
In the dark vault of heaven,
Like spangles on the deep blue sky,
Perhaps to you 'tis given
To shed your lucid radiance now
Upon my absent loved one's brow.
Ye fleecy clouds, that swiftly glide
O'er earth's oft-darkened way.
Floating along in grace and pride.
Perhaps your shadows stray
E'en now across the starry light
That guides my wanderer forth to-night.
Ye balmy breezes sweeping by,
And shedding freshness round,
Ye too, may haply, as ye fly.
With health and fragrance crowned.
Linger a moment, soft and light.
To sport amid his tresses bright.
Then stars, and clouds, and breezes bear
My heart's best wish to him ;
And say the feelings glowing there
Kor time nor change can dim ;
That be success or grief his share,
My love still brightening shall appear.
WEDDED LOVE.
Come, rouse thee, dearest, 'tis not well
To let the spirit brood
Thus darkly o'er the cares that swell
Life's current to a flood.
As brooks, and torrents, rivers, all
Increase the gulf in which they fall,
ANNA PEYRE DINNIES.. 479
Such thouglits, by gathering up the rills
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills
And with their gloomy shades conceal
The landmarks Hope would else reveal.
Come, rouse thee, now : I know thy mind,
And would its strength awaken ;
Proud, gifted, noble, ardent, kind —
Strange thou shouldst be thus shaken !
But rouse afresh each energy.
And be what Heaven intended thee ;
Throw from thy thoughts this wearying weight,
And prove thy spirit firmly great ;
I would not see thee bend below
The angry storms of earthly woe.
Full well I know the generous soul
"Which warms thee into life —
Each spring which can its powers control,
Familiar to thy wife ;
For deemst thou she had stooped to bind
Her fate unto a common mind?
The eagle-like ambition nursed
From childhood in her heart, had first
Consumed with its Promethean flame,
The shrine — then sunk her soul to shame.
Then rouse thee, dearest, from the dream
That fetters now thy powers :
Shake off this gloom — Hope sheds a beam
To gild each cloud that -lowers ;
And though at present seems so far
The wished-for goal — a guiding star,
With peaceful ray, would light thee on,
Until its utmost bounds be won ;
That quenchless ray thou 'It ever prove
In fond, undying wedded love.
LOUISA S. McCORD.
To combine the essential qualifications of a political writer,
philosopher, and poet, would seem to require a mind of mascu-
line calibre and resource : such a mind, certainly, as we have
been accustomed to think incompatible with the temperaments
and surroundings of southern women ; yet Mrs. McCord, a native
of Columbia, South Carolina, has presented to the world these
several aspects, and won distinction in each.
Louisa S. Cheves, daughter of the Hon. Langdon Cheves, a
leading lawyer and politician of South Carolina, was born in
that State in 1810. "With the advantages of a generous and
careful culture, she began very early to develop native abilities
of a high order, as well as aspirations far beyond her years.
In 1840, she married Col. David J. McCord, a genial, scholarly
man, who had risen to eminence in his profession of the law.
Allied thus nearly to men of strong political bias and influence,
Mrs. McCord's enthusiastic nature became thoroughly imbued
with southern patriotism. She carefully examined all questions
of State policy, and wielded a vigorous pen in defence of what
she conceived to be its vital principles.
In 1848, she published " Sophisms of the Protective Policy,"
a translation from the French of Basteat, and a volume of poems
entitled "My Dreams." In 1851, her tragedy, "Caius
Gracchus" was issued by a l!Tew York house. Since 1849 she
has been a contributor to " The Southern Quarterly Review,"
" The Southern Literary Messenger," and " De Bow's Review."
480
LOUISA S. McCORD. 481
These essays are characterized, not only by sharp logic and
scintillating ^vit, but by a spirit of earnest, womanly conserva-
tion. Among the most prominent are " Justice and Fraternity,"
" The Eight to Labor," " Diversity of the Races, its bearing
upon ISTegro Slavery," " l^egro and White Slavery," " Enfran-
chisement of Women," " Uncle Tom's Cabin," " Carey on the
Slave-trade," " Kegro Mania," " Woman and her ISTeeds,"
" British Philanthropy and American Slavery," " Charity
which does not Begin at Home," and " A Letter to the Duchess
of Sutherland from a Lady of South Carolina."
In discussing the Woman's Rights movement, she thus
replies to a proposition of an English review, that " a reason
must be given why anything should be permitted to one person
and interdicted to another." "A reason ! — a reason why man
cannot drink fire and breathe water ! A scientific answer about
hydrogen and oxygen will not answer the purpose. These are
facts, not reasons. Why ? Why ? Why is anything on God's
earth what it is ? Can Miss Martineau tell ? We cannot. God
has made it so, and reason, instinct and experience teach us its
uses. Woman, ITature teaches you yours."
Mrs. McCord illustrates her own theories. Residing during
the winter upon her plantation of Fort Mott, a place of historic
interest, she attends to the wants of the negroes in the most
tender manner, and conducts a hospital upon her own grounds ;
at the same time bringing into play numerous accomplishments
in the education of her children.
Mrs. McCord's poetry is the clear and unpretending utter-
ance of her nature. Of her tragedy of " Caius Gracchus " it
has been justly said :*
" It is a dramatic poem for the closet, balanced in its philo-
sophy and argument, Cornelia wisely tempering the democratic
fervor of her son. Many sound, pithy aphorisms of conduct
* Duyckinck's Cyclopaedia.
31
482 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
may be extracted from this piece, all expressed with purity and
precision."
CORNELIA AND GRACCHUS.
GEACCHTJ3.
Wolves breed not lambs, nor can the lioness
Rear fawns among her litter. You but chide
The spirit, mother, which is born from you.
COENELIA.
Curb it, my son, and watch against ambition !
Half demon and half god, she oft misleads
With the bold face of virtue. I know well
The breath of discontent is loud in Rome ;
And a hoarse murmuring vengeance smolders there
Against the tyrannous rule which, iron shod,
Doth trample out man's life. The crisis comes,
But oh ! beware, my son, how you shall force it 1
GRACCHUS.
Nay, let it come, that dreaded day of doom,
When -by the audit of his cruel wrongs
Heaped by the rich oppressor on the crowd
Of struggling victims, he must stand condemned
To vomit forth the ill-got gains which gorge
His luxury to repletion. Let it come !
The world can sleep no longer. Reason wakes
To know man's rights, and forward progress points.
COENELIA.
By reason led, and peaceful wisdom nursed,
All progress is for good. But the deep curse
Of bleeding nations follows in the track
Of mad ambition, which doth cheat itself
To find a glory in its lust for rule ;
Which, piling private ill on public wrong,
LOUISA S. McCORD. 43^
Beneath the garb of patriotism hides
Its large-mawed cravings ; and would thoughtless plunge
To every change, however riot waits,
"With feud intestine, by mad uproar driven,
And red-eyed murder to reproach the deed.
Death in its direst forms doth wait on such.
GEAOCHUS.
Man lives to die, and there's no better way
To let the shackled spirit find its freedom
Than in a glorious combat 'gainst oppression,
I would not grudge the breath lost in the struggle.
COENELIA.
ITor I, when duty calls. I am content,
May but my son prove worthy of the crisis ;
ifot shrinking from the trial, nor yet leaping
Beyond the marked outline of licensed right ;
Curbing his passions to his duty's rule ;
Giving his country all — life, fortune, fame —
And only clutching back, with miser's care,
His all untainted honor. But take heed !
The world doth set itself on stilts, to wear
The countenance of some higher, better thing.
'Tis well to seek this wisely ; but with haste
Grasping too high, like child beyond its reach.
It trips in the aspiring, and thus falls
To lowlier condition. Rashness drags
Eemorse and darkest evil in her train.
Pause, ere the cry of suffering pleads to heaven
Against this fearful mockery of right ;
This license wild, which smothers liberty
"While feigning to embrace it.
GEACOHTTS.
Thought fantastic
Doth drapery evil thus with unsketched ills.
No heart-sick maid nor dream-struck boy am I,
484 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
To scare myself with these. There's that in man
Doth long to rise by nature. Ever he,
Couching in lethargy, doth wrong himself.
CORNELIA.
Most true, and more I reverence human mind ;
And with a mingled love and pride I kneel
To nature's inborn majesty in man.
But as I reverence, therefore would I lend
My feeble aid this m;ghty power to lead
To its true aim and end. Most often 'tis
"When crowds do wander wide of right, and fall
To foul misuse of highest purposes.
The madness of their leaders drags them on.
I would not check aspiring, justly poised;
But rather bid you " on," where light is clear,
And your track plainly marked. I scorn tlie slang
Of "greedy populace," and "dirty crowd,"
Nor slander thus the nature which I bear.
Men in the aggregate not therefore cease
Still to be p^.en ; and where untaught they fall,
It is a noble duty to awake
The heart of truth, that slumbers in them stills
It is a glorious sight to rouse the soul.
The reasoning heart that in a nation sleeps !
And wisdom is a laggard at her task,
When but in closet speculations toiling,
She doth forget to share her thought abroad
And. make mankind her heir.
MART ELIZABETH LEE.
TVTa-rt E. Lee was born at Charleston, Soutli Carolina, on
tlie 23d of March, 1813. She belonged to an old family of
high social rank and intellectual culture. Her uncle, Judge
Thomas Lee, may be remembered by all as a man of note and
influence.
On account of an extremely delicate organization, and that
fine sensibility which belongs to the poetical temperament. Miss
Lee was carefully shielded from all rough contact with the
world, not even being allowed to enter school until she was ten
years of age. She was then placed in charge of Mr. A. Bolles,
a successful teacher of young ladies, in Charleston. The advan-
tages of the school-room seemed to unfold to her a new world
of resource. Books became her passion. She made rapid pro-
gress in her studies, and gathered a store of varied knowledge
for future use. About this time, she began to develop also
great aptitude for the acquisition of languages ; but her health
gave way under the pressure of close application, and she was
obliged to pursue a less systematic and rigorous course within
the quiet precincts of her own home. But no obstacles could
check her advance.
At the age of twenty she became a contributor to "The
Rose Bud," a periodical edited by Mrs. Oilman, and gradually
growing into marked favor with the public. Her compositions
in prose and verse, were invoked by most of the popular jour-
nals of the day.
Among these contributions, " The Lone Star," ." Con-eggio'fl
485
486 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
Holy Eamily," "The Hour of Death," "The Death Bed of
Prince Henry," and the " Blind Negro Communicant," afford
some of the best characteristics Qf her style.
About this time her first volume, entitled " Social Even-
ings, or Historical Tales for Youth," was published by the
Massachusetts School Library Association, and proved to be
one of the most attractive in the collection.
Determined to maintain herself in strict independence, she
continued t^o write for northern and southern periodicals, until
her health utterly failed. That she was possessed of an inde-
fatigable and truly heroic spirit, may be learned from the fact
that when her right hand became helpless from paralysis, she
grasped the pen firmly with the left hand, acquired a new style
of chirography, and abated not a jot of her labor.
After years of slow physical torture. Miss Lee died gently
and hopefully in the midst of her family, at Charleston, Sep-
tember 23, 1849. In 1851, a volume of her poems was pub-
lished, with an interesting and tender tribute from the pen of
the Eev. Dr. Oilman.
THE POETS.
The poets— the poets —
Those giants of the earth :
In mighty strength they tower above
The men of common birth ;
A noble race — they mingle not
Among the motley throng,
But move with slow and measured steps
To music-notes along.
The poets — the poets —
What conquests they can boast !
Without one drop of life-blood spilt,
They rule a world's wide host ;
MARY ELIZABETH LEE. 487
Their stainless banner floats unharmed
From age to lengthened age ;
And history records their deeds
Upon her proudest page.
The poets — the poets —
How endless is their fame !
Death, like a thin mist, comes, yet leaves
No shadow on each name ;
But as yon starry gems that gleam
In evening's crystal sky,
So nave they won, in memory's depths,
An immortality.
The poets — the poets — ^
Who doth not linger o'er
The glorious volumes that contain
Their bright and spotless lore?
They charm as in the saddest hours.
Our richest joys they feed ;
And love for them has grown to be
A universal creed.
The poets — the poets —
Those kingly minstrels dead,
"Well may we twine a votive wreath
Around each honored head :
No tribute is too high to give
Those crowned ones among men.
The poets ! the true poets !
Thanks be to God for them !
488 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH,
AN EASTERN LOVE SONG.
Awake, my silver lute ;
String all thy plaintive wires,
And as the fountain gushes free,
So let thy memory chant for me
The theme that never tires. *
Awake, my liquid voice ;
Like yonder timorous bird,
Why dost thou sing in trembling fear
As if by some obtrusive ear
Thy secret should be heard ?
Awake, my heart — yet no ! ^
As Oedron's golden rill.
Whose changeless echo singeth o'er
Notes it had heard long years before.
So thou art never still.
My voice I my lute ! my heart !
Spring joyously above
The feeble notes of lower earth
And let thy richest tones have birth
Beneath the touch of love.
THE LAST PLACE OF SLEEP.
Lay me not in greenwood lone
Where the sad wind maketh moan,
Where the sun hath never shone,
Save as if in sadness ;
Nor, I pray thee, let me be
Buried 'neath the chill, cold sea
Where the waves, tumultuous, free,
Chafe themselves to madness.
MARY ELIZABETH LEE. 489
But in yon inclosure small,
Near the churchyard's mossy wall,
Where the dew and sunlight faU,
I would have my dwelling ;
Sure there are some friends, I wot,
Who would make that narrow spot
Lovely as a garden plot
With rich perftimes swelling.
GEOKGIAITA A. HULSE McLEOD.
Mes. McLeod, daughter of Dr. Isaac Hulse, of the United
States ISTavy, and grand-daughter of Rev. Dr. George Roberts,
of Baltimore, was born near Pensacola, Florida, at the naval
hospital, of which her father was then surgeon. While yet a
mere infant, she was left an orphan. She very early evinced a
taste for literature, and contributed to several periodicals under
various noms de plume.
Soon after completing her school education, she produced
" Sunbeams and Shadows," which was brought out by Messrs.
Appleton of JSTew York.
In 1853, she married the Rev. Dr. Alexander W. McLeod,
of Halifax, JN^ova Scotia, where for a time they resided. She
then gave to the world her second volume, " Ivy-Leaves from
the Old Homestead." This was soon followed by " Thine and
Mine," which was published by Messrs. Derby & Jackson.
Mrs. McLeod's last book evidences steady growth and cul-
ture, and lias been received with much favor. All the works
of this writer are marked by fine sensibility and high-toned
morality. Her second book, " Ivy-Leaves," is garnished with
poems, some of which indicate a true poetic element.
It is said that Mrs. McLeod is widely known and loved for
her pure womanliness and exalted piety, as well as her graces
of mind and person. She is presiding, at present, over " The
Southern Literary Institute," of Baltimore, Md. This, institu-
tion is designed for young ladies exclusively, and is rapidly ris-
ing in popular favor.
490
GEOllGIANA A. HULSil MuLEOD. 491
LOU LYNDSAY'S BRIDAL.
Very lovely the young girl seemed to the loving eyes that looked tipon
her that Christmas eve. The solemn words, and the response given in
clear, manly tones, seemed to have a subduing effect. The varying color
upon her cheek satisfied even i^urse Grantham's ideas of propriety.
She was strangely quiet for a time, hut back to her eye came the
dancing, mirthful light of yore, and the smile and playfol jest were her
very own. There was snow lying deep upon the ground without, but the
storm had ceased, and down upon the glittering covering the earth now
wore, myriads of stars gleamed brightly, and soon the moon, in its clear,
silvery light, shed abroad upon the earth a blessing.
As upon Judea's plains, in years long ago, it shone where the watch-
ing shepherds dwelt, heralding the light that was to dawn upon a waking
world — the light for which God's Israel looked and prayed — a light not
to them only, but to shine into the hearts of the great family of man,
Jew and Gentile, Greek and Barbarian. Light above, below, without,
within, and joy that was to be not for a season only, dwelt in many a
home and heart upon Lou Lyndsay's bridal eve.
SUNBEAMS AND SHADOWS.
The fire hath gone out on my lonely hearth ; its last embers faded as I
watched ! Without, the darkness reigns, and the snow lieth heavily on the
earth, even as those sorrows which have fallen on my heart, and blanched
my hair to whiteness.
The loved of my youth are gone to the far-off land, or in homes brighter
than my own, they know not of my desolation. Their voices come around
me, echoing from the past in the deep still night, and I turn to meet them,
but the shadows mock me !
Here are the bright tresses which I severed, and from their jewelled
cases look forth the joyous semblances of those missing from my side! My
fairy darlings ! ye who made sunlight in earth's darkest paths, why have ye
fled from my idolizing love ? My noble May ! my little Rose ! where are
your young heads pillowed? Alas! curtained by the night, cradled in the
storm, beneath the cold damp earth ! and T, who yearn to shelter you, am left
alone ! 'So, not alone — God Is still with me ; and he to whom in girlhood I
492 * W0ME2. OF THE SOUTH.
gave my trusting faith, is left me still ! May our Father forgive the weak-
ness of a mother's stricken heart. May He help me to remember ever, that
my treasures are safely housed, where no chill wind can reach them — where
sorrow shall never find them, and where, in the day of his coming, the
glorified spirits shall he joined again unto the earthly part now slumbering !
I will hush my sighs, and oh, what need of tears has one who has added
two bright angels to the choir that swell the anthems of triumph near the
throne! I will lay me down to rest, trusting to Him, who doeth what is
rij^bt, and who, ere long, will give us one bright home together.
THE MOTHER'S PRAYER.
Gently in my arms they laid him,
Like a lily pure, and fair,
Violets 'neath the dark fringed eyelids,
Silken rings of soft, brown hair ;
Beautiful for artist's limning,
Fragile as a new-bom flower,
Oh ! how earnest was my prayer,
For my darling in that hour.
All earth's richest, and its rarest.
Buds of beauty, gems of light,
Treasures won by art, or science.
Were as nothing in my sight ;
Not for all would I have bartered,
This most beauteous, precious gift ;
Scarcely e'en to bless the giver,
Could my eyes to heaven I lift.
All that earthly love could lavish
On its dearest, and its best,
Did my heart already garner,
For the baby on my breast ;
In an hour, I lived a life-time,
Oh, how bright a waking dream I
Passed from infancy to manhood,
In all hearts he reigned supreme.
GEORGIANA A. HULSE McLEOD. 493
"Woe is me ! How soon the durknesB,
Hid the picture from my sight ;
Little thought I that the morrow,
Would for me be as the night;
Thankless heart, forgetting blindly,
That no idols we must make —
Brief my dreaming, crushing sorrow,
Taught me from such dream to wake.
Paler drooped my pure white lily,
Far too pure for earthly stain,
In the land of living flowers.
In shaU be raised up again ;
Stricken heart, and lonely mother,
Look I to a far off shore,
I had prayed — " Bless him my iaix^er,"
So he blessed him evermore 1
PASSERS BY.
How many changing faces
My wand'ring glances meet,
As sitting at the window
I look out upon the street.
The rain is falling coldly
As sorrow on the heart,
And all in shadow lieth
The busy, crowded mart.
But eager, hurried footfalls
Are on the pave below.
And care-worn, thoughtfal faces
Pass ever to and fro.
A loitering happy school-boy,
Now from my sight is gone,
But I can hear him whistling
Of " The old folks at home."
Then, I begin to wonder
If his home is like to ours;
494 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
- If so, lie has a tappy one,
A pathway full of flowers.
Now shouting joyously they come,
A merry thoughtless band
Just free (for it is mid-day),
From the school-house near at hand.
It does me good to see them
Untouched as yet by grief.
And so thinks one who seemeth
With me a watch to keep.
The tramp of steeds comes slowly,
I hear it nearer now,
Some heart I ween is stricken,
Some idol is laid low !
A little child they're bearing
Unto its dreamless rest,
Why weep they wildly, more than we ?
The guileless spirit's blest.
Slowly, more slowly, pass ye.
And lay it gently down,
'Tis but the earthly part ye bear,
The glorious soul is flown.
Look up ! as though a message
Is sent you from on high,
The sun that cloud is parting.
The blue is in the sky I
*****
Gone, the mourners, and the gleam-light.
That for a moment given,
Seemed to win the sorrowing spirits,
To turn their eyes to heaven.
Friendly, smiling, well-known faces,
With answering smile I greet.
As many a lesson learning,
I look out on the street.
MART J. WESTDLE.
Maet Jane Wlndli:, a native of Wilmington, Delaware, was
bom on the 16th February, 1825. Deprived soon after her
birth of a father's care, she, together ^w^th a large family circle,
became entii'ely dependent upon the exertions of her mother ;
but, notwithstanding the disadvantages of her position,. Miss
Windle applied herself assiduously to her studies, and was soon
familiar with the most important elements of modern literature.
She then became an occasional contributor to the public
press. Her compositions in prose and poetry bore the stamp of
decided talent, and soon won for her a distinctive rank among
the periodical writers of the day. Her graceful and delicate
sketches, especially, became so widely popular, that she was at
last prevailed upon to collect the best of them and reprint them
in book form. This volume appeared in 1850, and reached a
large circulation. ,
Miss Windle's most marked characteristics, as a writer, are
affluence of expression, delineative power, and exceeding purity
of taste. Though a sufferer from ill health, she is ever faithful
to literary pursuits, and mindful as well of all social and
domestic claims.
ALICE HEATH'S INTERVIEW AVTTH CROMWELL.
The apartment was an ante-room attached to the spacious hed-chamber
formerly belonging to the king. It was hixurionsly furnished with all the
495
496 WOMEX OF THE SOUTH.
appliances of ease and elegance suitable to a royal Tvithdrawing-room.
Tables and chairs of rose-wood, ricldy inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl,
were arranged in order around the room ; magnificent vases of porcelain
decorated the mantel-piece ; statues from the chisel of Michael Angelo stood
in the niches ; and pictures in gorgeous frames hung upon the walls.
There, near a table, on which burned a single shaded lamp, standing
upright in the attitude of prayer, from which he had just been interrupted,
stood the occupant. For an instant, as she lingered near the door, and looked
upon the figure which bore so strongly the impress of power, and felt that on
his word hung the fate of him for whom she had come to plead, she already
feared for the success of her mission, and would fain almost have retracted
her visit. But remembering the accents of prayer she had heard while wait-
ing without, she considered that her purposed appeal was to the conscience
of one whom she had just surprised, as it were, in the presence of his Maker,
and took courage to advance.
"May I pray thee to approach and be seated, madam, and unfold the
object of this visit," said Cromwell, in a thick, rapid utterance, the result
of his surprise, as he waved his visitor to a chair. " At that distance,
and by this light, I can hardly distinguish the features of the lady who
BO inopportunely and unceremoniously honors me with her presence.''
Immediately advancing, she threw back her hood, and offering hins
her hand, said: "It is Alice Heath, the daughter of your friend, General
Lisle."
Cromwell's rugged countenance expressed the utmost surprise, as he
awkwardly strove to assume a courtesy foreign to his manner, and
exchange the first ungracious greeting for a more cordial welcome.
With exceeding tact, Alice hastened to relieve his embarrassment, by
falling back into the chair ,he had offered, and at once declaring the pur-
pose of her visit.
"General Cromwell," she began, in a voice sweetly distinct, "you
stand high in the eyes of man, not only as a patriot, but a strict and
conscientious servant of the Most High. As such, you have been the
main instrument in procuring the doom now hanging in awful expectation
over the head of him who once tenanted, in the same splendor that now sur-
rounds yourself, the building in which I find you. Methinks his vacation of
these princely premises, and your succession thereunto, renders you scarcely
capable of being a disinterested advocate for his death ; since, by it, you
become successor to all the pomp and power formerly his. Have you asked
MAEY J. WIXDLE. _ 497
yourself the question whether or no motives of self-aggrandizement have
tainted this deed of patriotism, or sullied this act of religion?"
" Your language is unwarrantable and unbecoming, madam," said Crom-
well, deadly pale and trembling violently ; " it is written "
" Excuse me," said Alice, interupting him ; " you think it uncourteous and
even impertinent that I should intrude upon you Avith a question such as I
but now addressed to you. But, General Cromwell, a human life is at stake,
and that the life of no ordinary being, but the descendant of a race of kings.
Nay, hear me out, sir, I beg of you. Charles Stuart is about to die an awful
and a violent death ; your voice has condemned him — your voice can yet
save him. If it be your country's weal that you desire, that object has been
already sufficiently answered by the example of his trial ; or, if it is to
further the cause of the Lord of Hosts that you place yourself at the head
of Britain in his place, be assured that he who would assert his power by
surrounding himself with a pomp like this, is no delegate of One who com-
missioned Moses to lead his people through the wilderness, a sharer in the
common lot, and a houseless wanderer like themselves. Bethink you, there-
fore, what must be the doom of him, who, for the sake of ambition and
pride — ^in order that he might, for the brief space of his life, enjoy luxury
and power — ^under the borrowed name, too, of that God who views the
act with horror and detestation, stains his hands with parricidal blood.
Yes, General Cromwell, for thy own souFs, if not for mercy's sake, I entreat
thee, in whom alone lies the power, to cause Charles Stuart's sentence to be
remitted."
After a few moments' hesitation, during which Alice looked in his face
with the deepest anxiety, and awaited his answer, he said :
" Go to, young woman, who presumest to interfere between a judge
raised up for the redemption of England, and a traitor king, whom the Lord
hath permitted to be condemned to the axe. As my soul liveth, and as He
liveth, who will one day make me a ruler in Israel, thou hast more than the
vanity of thy sex, in hoping by thy foolish speech to move me to lift up my
hand against the decree of the Almighty. Truly "
"Nay, General Cromwell," said Alice, interrupting him, as soon as she
perceived that he was about to enter into one of his lengthy and pointless
harangues, "nay, you evade the matter both with me and with the con-
science whose workings I have for the last few moments beheld in the dis-
order of your frame. Have its pleadings — for to them I look, and not to
32
498 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
any eloquence of mine own — been of no avail. Will it please you to do aught
for the king?"
" Young lady," replied Crom-well, bursting into tears, which he was occa-
sionally wont to do, " a man like me, who is called to perform great acts in
Israel, had need to be immovable to feelings of human charities. Think you
not it is painful to our mortal sympathies to be called upon to execute the
righteous judgments of Heaven, while we are yet in the body ! And think
you, when we must remove some prime tyrant, that the instruments of his
removal can at all times view their part in his punishment with unshaken
nerves ? Must they not even at times doubt the inspiration under which
they have felt and acted ? Miist they not occasionally question the origin of
that strong impulse which appears the inward answer to prayer for direction
under beavenly difficulties, and, in their disturbed apprehensions, confuse
even the responses of truth with the strong delusions of Satan? Would
that the Lord would harden my heart, even as he hardened that of"
" Stop, sir," said Alice, interrupting him ere his softened mood should
have passed away, " utter not such a sacrilegious wish. Why are the kindly
sympathies which you describe implanted in your bosom, unless it be to pre-
vent your ambition from stifling your humanity? The rather encourage
them, and save Charles Stuart. Let your mind dwell upon the many traits
of nobleness in his character, which might be mentioned with enthusiasm,
aye, and with sorrow, too, that they should be thus sacrificed."
" The Most High, young woman, will have no fainters in spirit in Ms ser-
vice ; none who turn back from Mount Gilead for fear of the Amalekites.
To be brief, it waxes late ; to discuss this topic longer is but to distress us
both. Charles Stuart must die : the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it."
As he spoke, he bowed with a determined but respectful reverence, and
when he lifted up his head, the expression, of his features told Alice that the
doom of the king was sealed.
" I see there is no hope," said she, with a deep sigh, as Cromwell spoke
these words in a tone of decision which left her no further encouragement,
and with a brevity so unusual to him. Nor was his hint to close the inter-
view lost upon her. "No hope!" she repeated, drawing back. "Heave
you then, inexorable man of iron, and may you not thus plead in vain for
mercy at the bar of God!"
So saying, she turned and rejoined her husband, who remained in wait-
ing for her ; they returned together to Lisle's house.
YET AT7TH0IIS»
The brief sketches that follow are of writers who have given
to the world no collection of their works, but whose fugitive
pieces have been variously noticed.
JAKE T. WOKTHmGTOlSr,
"Wife of Dr. F. A. Worthington, of Ohio, and daughter of
Colonel Lomax, of the United States Army, was a native
of Yirginia, and descended from a distinguished family of
that State. By the frequent changes of residence involved
in military service, she was afforded large opportunities
for observation and social and intellectual culture, but she
always retained a strong attachment for her native State, and
nearly all her writings, in prose and verse, appeared in the
" Southern Literary Messenger," of Richmond. Her compo-
sitions— her essays especially — are marked by good sense and
great womanly delicacy. Her poems have a graceful simplicity,
in keeping with her character. She died in 1847, lamented by
a large circle of appreciative friends.
THE POOR.
Have pity on them, for their life
Is full of grief and care :
You do not know one half the woes
The very poor must bear ;
499
500 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
You do not see the silent tears
By many a mother shed,
As childhood offers up the prayer,
" Give us our daily bread."
And sick at heart she turns away
From the small face wan with pain,
And feels that prayer has long been said
By those young lips in vain.
You do not see the pallid cheeks
Of those whose years are few,
But who are old in all the griefs
The poor must struggle through.
• Their lot is made of misery
More hopeless day by day,
And through the long cold winter nights
Nor light nor fire have they ;
But little children, shivering, crouch
Around the cheerless hearth.
Their young hearts weary with the want
That drags the soul to earth.
Oh, when with faint and languid voice
The poor implore your aid,
It matters not how, step by step,
Their misery was made ;
It matters not if shame had left
Its shadow on their brow — ■
It is enough for you to see
That they are suffering now.
Deal gently with these wretched ones,
• Whatever wrought their woe,
For tne poor have much to tempt and test
That you can never know :
R. JACOBUS. 501
Then judge them not, for hard indeed
Is their dark lot of care ;
Let Heaven condemn, but human hearts
With human faults should bear.
And when within your happy homes
You hear the voice of mirth.
When smiling faces brighten round
The warm and cheerful hearth,
Let charitable thoughts go forth
For the sad and homeless one,
And your own lot more blest will be,
For every kind deed done.
Now is the time the very poor
Must often meet your gaze —
Have mercy on them in these cold
And melancholy days.
E, JACOBUS.
Mrs. Jacobus' contributions, of prose and verse, to the
" Home Journal," " Fitzgerald's City Item," and other papers,
have gained her many admirers and an honorable rank in the
literary" world. Her stories in the " Home Journal," with which
the public is most familiar, evince mental poise and vigor, and
send home effective moral truths. She was born on the 22d of
February, 1832, in Cambridge, South Carolina. Her mother is
a native of Bordeaux, France. Mrs. Jacobus' earliest recollec-
tions are of a luxurious and happy home, which slipped from
the possession of her parents in the midst of many reverses. In
this state of things, the family removed, in 1844, to Florida.
" The wild life that followed our arrival in Florida," she says,
502 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
" was tlie happiest period of my life ; twenty miles distant, on
either side, from any human habitation, we roamed the woods,
waded the depths of the beautiful sound, with no human eye
to prescribe our freedom, no social conventionalisms to set bounds
to our wild enjoyments. Yet even in this grand solitude was the
worship (Jewish) of our forefathers observed the same as when
standing beneath the magnificent dome of Israel's Grod. As
each Friday twilight signalled the approach of our holy Sabbath,
jovial voices were hushed, labor was suspended, and, gathering
round the family altar, with bowed heads and clasped h^nds, we
listened to fervent prayers made doubly solemn by our surround-
ings."
After two years passed in this way, the family removed to
New Orleans, where our writer entered school, and, pursuing
her education under the careful and generous supervision of her
brother. Judge Heydenfeldt, graduated after five years at Mont-
gomery, Ala. She then married Mr. Jacobus, and became so
devoted to a domestic circle of her own, as to shut out any but
the most occasional literary claim.
THE SECOND WIFE.
He could not seem more life-like were he standing before me — ^the same
hard look on his face ; the same icy light in his cold, grey eye ; the broad
brow incasing more thought thaa lives in the minds of fifty other clever men.
There is a peculiar charm about Hamilton, either in his painted semblance or
in himself, standing or walking, with the cold look freezing over his face, or
the smile which only Hamilton can smile, beaming and breaking like a
beautiful sun-tinted cloud over a misty, winter sky. Then I turn to Zalia,
as well in thought as in sight. Zalia, with her gentle eyes — every way gentle
save one quiet shadow — saying more expressively than her lips could, " I
will love, I will struggle, I will forbear, but I must be beloved." How that
soft face brightened under Hamilton's smile— the smile that won her, and the
tard look that .. Ah ! well, it is all past now. The wind tossed the
R. JACOBUS. 503
flowers, the untimely frost spangled the leaves with a false beauty, and time
swept everything away but the gloomy waste ; and that remains as cold, and
stark, and dreary, as though no bright flowers had ever burst through the
grassy carpet, or no green leaves or young buds had ever sprung or bloomed
there, under the bright sunlight of heaven.
Hamilton was what the world called a handsome man, though his real
attraction verged more on a certain kind of fascination than beauty. He
would invariably attract and repulse in turn : the one inspiring a kind of
gratitude, and the other an unaccountable feeling of reverential awe. Col-
lege boys walked a block out of their way to miss him ; and young sprouts,
with red vests, diamond collar-pins, and misapplied Latin quotations always
on hand, eschewed his presence as an extended toad-fish would the broadside
of a voracious shark.
Hamilton did not love his first wife, though she was good and beautiful ;
loving him with an intensity that caused her to thank God when the seal of
death was upon her — for she knew he did not love her. He experienced a
sort of pleasure in letting her know it ; though, had he known the pain that
knowledge gave her, he would have been a little less cold, and much more
kind. But he did not, and day after day went on his same cold, loveless
track, until the doctor's buggy rolled noiselessly away, the green blinds
closed, silent figures passed in and out, and the wax candles at the head and
feet burned dimmer and dimmer on that quiet, upturned face, looking
heavenward with a faint, shadowy smile, as though it were asking for God'«
love now, nor wished for Hamilton's.
Where was he then ? Standing beside that quiet form, with a harder and
a colder look on his stern face than ever it wore before. He stood there, not
through love, but as a penalty, feeling strangely fascinated to undergo the
punishment it entailed ; and over and over again a voice in his heart whis-
pered, " You have done it," while the soft smile, which never varied, always
answered, " You are forgiven." Hamilton started as the snowy covering
moved, and little Charley crept from beneath the shroud, and sat on a chair
by his mother's side, watching her with a look of pain seldom seen on a
child's face.
"You are not sorry," said he, looking up with his father's same hard, icy
look on his little face. " You would rather read, than talk to her ; and now
you may read all day and night — she will never talk to you again, and I am
glad of it."
"Leave the room, sir," said Hamilton, fiercely.
504 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
A figure rose from the shadow of the heavy curtains, and, approaching
the child, took him gently by the hand. " No, no, Zalia, please ; I want to
ftay. I love mamma better than he does."
Hamilton sprang toward the child, but Zalia etood between them, and
the next moment the door closed, leaving the husband alone with his dead
wife, his passionless heart, and cold eyes, and the voice that never ceased
whispering, "You have done it."
THE WIND.
Hark ! as it sweeps the darkened streets,
Lashing the sands
That whirling rise, athwart the skies.
In hazy strands.
Hark ! how it shrieks, in its maddened freaks,
List to the leaves.
As it dashes off, with a howl and a scoff",
Thro' the tangling trees.
List I as its knell wakens the bell
With a scream and a start.
As the loud peals tell where the fiery hell
Is playing its part.
Wildly it stamps the burning planks
In a wreath of flame,
While its horrible laugh splinters in half
The tottering frame.
Madly it games with the lurid flames
In terrible love ;
Screaming ! it plays with the reddening blaze
Flaming above.
With fiendish hands it scatters the brands
In demonish glee.
Then scofiingly flings its sightless wings
Over the sea.
R. JACOBUS. 505
Mark ! how the clouds, in purple shrouda,
Blacken the rays,
As its terrible touch, with a yell and a rush,
Wakens the waves.
They shiver and part, with a moan and a start,
Stung by its breath,
Then roaring they dash, with a terrible crash.
Whirling in death.
On thro' the night, without beacon or light,
They struggle and mourn,
And writhingly kiss, with a maddened hiss,
The surging foam.
With a sudden start, exulting they part,
On the breast of the blast,
'Gainst the blackened sky, they shrieking espy,
A tottering mast.
See, see, as she rides, her quivering sides
Fearfully cave ;
Now, bravely she floats, o'er thoi gaping tliroats
Of the lashing wave.
Now poised on high. Hark ! to the cry,
As the waves unlock,
Then madly lash, with a terrible crash.
And a fearful shock.
The ship ! see ! fast, the reeling mast
Splinters in two.
As the mad wind's breath hurries to death
The fated crew.
Despairing and wild, the mother and child
Fly from each other :
Husband and wife part in the strife.
Sister and brother.
500 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
The v/ild winds soar, the mad waves roar
As they whirlingly leap.
The ship ! the storm ! Oh, God ! she is gone
Down in the deep.
The shrill death cries, in the blackened skies
No answer find.
The screams of death sink in the breath
Of the maddened wind.
ESSIE B. CHEESBOROUGH
Is a native of Charleston, South Carolina. For several
years she has "been a constant contributor of prose and verse to
the leading periodicals of the South. Her compositions have
mostly appeared in the "Southern Literary Messenger,"
" Southern Literary Gazette," " Russell's Magazine," " Southern
Episcopalian," " The Southern," and the " Charleston Courier. "
She has also contributed to " Godey's Lady's Book."
A THOUGHT IN A DREAM.
As deep in Lethean calm I slept,
Whilst pale stars softly, gently crept
Along the silent heaven,
And angel wings had ceased their flight,
Afraid to stir the hush of night —
A dream to me was given.
It may have been the wind's weird sigh,
In minor music floating by,
No music here resembling.
ESSIE B. CHEESBOROUGH. 507
That, faintly heard in land of sleep,
Did softly to my hushed heart creep,
Like lute's ecstatic trembling.
I know not, but there came a dream
Like seraph music, soft, serene.
From silver harps revealing;
It swept the air with fairy flight.
It bore my soul with magic might,
To realms with sunshine streaming.
For in that dream there dwelt a thought,
The sweetest, softest ever brought
On slumber's silent pinions ;
Oh, loved one, on that charmed night,
'Twas thought of you that lent me light
In dream-land's dark dominion.
A SKELETON IN EVERY HEART.
Slowly I followed her through a long gallery, where the light fell on rich
pictures, and gleamed on the cold beauty of marble statues. Here hung the
"Ecce Homo," with its calm, holy eyes; and the "Entombment," by
Raphael, with its bowed figures of touching grief Here, marble Niobes and
statues of Diana stood side by side, with Bernini's skull and sleeping child,
emblems of life and death. But I lingered not to note these rare gems of
art, as wonderingly I followed my silent conductress through the long gal-
lery. At length we reached a door, which she unlocked, and we entered a
small room, dimly lit by a lamp that hung from the ceiling. No window
through whose crevices the blessed light of day could steal, illumined that
dreary room ; no furniture stood there save a time-worn couch. From the
ceiling to the floor hung a black curtain, that swayed mournfully as the
signora closed the door hurriedly. With a trembling hand she moved aside
the funereal drapery, and fastened it back. Oh, horrible sight ! There hung a
grim slceleton from a beam. Wbat meant this awful mystery — this deathly
spectacle? and. faint at beart, I sank down on the couch before the dreadful
sight. Calm as one of her own marble statues, and as white, too, stood
508 ' WOMEN or THE SOUTH.
Agnese; but her crimson lip quivered with, a grief that she seemed powerless
to express.
" Oh, what means this, Agnese ?" I asked, in tones of agony. She seated
herself beside me, and said: "You say that I am the happiest woman in all
Naples. How far you are right you yourself shall judge ; it is for this I have
•brought you here. Listen."
Slowly swung the dim lamp from the ceiling ; a cold, chilling atmosphere
seemed to surround us ; and the grim skeleton grinned in fearful hideousness
from the beam. I gathered closer to the signora, and looked up into her
face. How sadly it gleamed out from amidst the gloom that enshrouded us,
pure, pale, spiritual I
EMELIE C. S. CHILTOK,
#hose maiden name was Swan, was born at Lost Mound,
Illinois, on the 25tli April, 1838. "When she was but five years
of age, her mother died, and she was left to the sole care of her
father, with whom she lived at Galena, during the first years
of her school life. Subsequently she entered Eock River
Seminary, located at Mount Morris, Illinois, where she prose-
cuted a regular course of study, and graduated with great
credit to herself and her teachers. Soon after completing her
education, she visited her relatives in I^ashville, and there made
the acquaintance of James A. Chilton, an intelligent and highly
respected gentleman of that city, to whom she was afterward
married.
Mrs. Chilton gave early indications of poetic talent. One
of her best poems was written when she was a mere child,
attending the grammar school at Galena. Since she became a
resident of ISTashville, she has been a regular contributor to
several of the journals and periodicals of that city and else-
where. In May, 1859, she assumed the editorial control of the
EMELIE C. S. CHILTON. 509
" Soutliern Temperance Montlilj," which her talent and indus-
try have rendered a popular and elegant journal. Since her
connection with that periodical, most of her productions have
appeared in its columns.
OCTOBER.
Alone I sit in the old arm-chair,
For I love to muse on a quiet day,
And I'm gazing down on the old oak floor,
Dreamily watching the sunbeams play.
Noiseless and bright as spirits they come,
And quietly look through the half open door,
The beautiful rays of the autumn sun
Are gently gliding across the floor.
There's not e'en the chirp of a bird to-day,
The noisy jay from his nest has flown,
And nothing is here save the ticking clock,
And the cat asleep on the warm hearth-stone.
October has come with its warm, sunny days.
And has brought us again its dreamy breeze ;
It has come with its wreath of crimson leaves.
To twine in a crown around the trees.
And over the tops of the forest kings.
Is spread a sky of ethereal blue,
Before which flit as in mockery
Those snowy clouds which the sun peeps through.
And far o'er the hills where the sky looks down
To meet the dim line where the forest sways.
Float dark, gorgeous clouds, which resemble
Grey, ruined castles of olden days.
And the little brook, with its moss-grown rocks,
It babbles no more its merry song.
But its voice has sunk to a low, sweet tune,
That you scarce can hear as it glides along.
510 WOMEN OF THE SOUTH.
And the grasshopper sings a doleful lay,
And the sunflower bows her head to weep,
The vine turns red o'er the old stone wall,
And the butterfly- worm has gone to sleep.
And when October has journeyed on,
Till the frost has silvered his flowing hair,
The wind- voice wails in a pitiful moan,
Or shrieks aloud as in wild despair ;
And hoarse and deep in the chorus blend
The trees of the forest their surging roar,
While they strew the gems from their crimson crowns,
'Till the brown old earth is covered o'er.
And then, as if tired with scenes of strife,
The wild wind sinks to a hollow moan.
As if 'twould grieve for the sorrowing hearts,
Whese dismal wailings are like its own.
Then the lightsome tread of the squirrel's foot,
On the rustling autumn leaves we hear.
And the fitful sway of the lifeless grass
Harshly grates on the listening ear.
So the winds wail on and scatter the frost,
And all day long caws the gloomy crow,
And the skies grow dim, and the leaden clouds
Look coldly down on the scene below
The earth looks drear in her mourning clad,
For the lovely things she has seen decay,
And mournful the season is, and sad,
When the month of October dies away.
THE WEENS m THE LOOIJST-TREE.
I know of a nest which the wild birds built.
That you cannot reach, 'tis so high.
For the tree is strong, and the thorns are sharp,
And the branches are flouting the sky.
EMELIE C. S. CHILTON. 511
The birds sit there and swing in the air,
And warble a song to me,
And the notes come sweet to my lone retreat,
From the wrens in the old locust-tree.
I know of a nest which the wild birds built,
I watched as they carried the moss,
And the little dry sticks and tender twigs, .
And so cunningly wove them across.
'Twas a curious thing, those birds in the spring,
Were busy as busy could be,
Hiding day after day that wee nest away,
'Mid the thorns in the old locust-tree.
I know of a nest which the wild birds built
And they sing to the soft summer air,
" How the leaves will come out and shade us aboat
And hide all our eggs lying there.
And then, by and by, when the sun warms the sky,
Some sweet little nestlings there'll be,
To flutter and hop from our home to the top
Of this shadowy old locust-tree."
I know of a nest which the wild birds built,
And I sit by my window and look,
"While very, very slow does my needle go.
And closed is my favorite book.
The birdie's sweet lay keeps me dreaming away,
Of how happy we all shall be.
They away up above, and I and my love,
Down here 'neath the old locust-tree.
T H B E K D,
SOUTHERN HISTORIES,
PUBLISHED BY
CHARLES B. RICHARDSON,
NEW YORK.
Soldi 02n.l-y toy
JUST PUBLISHED !
_A. "Valuable and Interesting l^V^ork.
SOUTHERN GENERALS:
THEIB
LIVES and CJsJ^T^^TGrNS,
BT
Capt. WM. PARKER SNOW.
1 Vol. 8vo. ; 500 Faffes. Cloth, $4.00. Half Calf, Library Style, $6.00.
With. 17 Portraits on SteeL
The above volume contains careful and candid biographies of all the most
prominent " Southern Generals," giving most complete histories of their Uvea
with full and graphic accounts of the various campaigns in ■which they "have
been engaged. The portraits have been finely engraved on steel, by one of the
best artists in the coimtry, and, as likenesses, are unquestionably superior to any
heretofore pubhshed.
The ■whole work, in all its particulars, has been prepared ■with great care, and
most careful research, from official documents, personal statements, and the nar-
ration of friends — and presents a mass of interesting and hitherto inaccessible
information in regard to the " Southern Generals," ■which cannot fail to be of the
highest interest.
C. B. BICHAJRDSOJ^,
Publisher,
540 BROADWAY. N. Y.
THE ONLY COMPLETE SOUTHERN HISTORY.
Southern History of the War,
EDWAKD A. POLLAED,
E3d.itor of tlie Ridimond. Examiner
2 Vols-, Svo., about 675 Fages each; Cloth, ^3.50 per Vol Rolf Calf,
Library Binding, %b.bQ jper Vol.
With. Splendid Steel Portraits of
JEFFEKSON DAVIS,
Gen. ROBERT E. LEE,
Gen. J. T. JACKSON,
Gen. G. p. T. BEAUREGARD,
Gen. J. E. B. STUART,
Gen. BRAXTON BRAGG,
Gen. R. S. EWELL,
Gen. LEONIDAS POLK,
Gen. wade HAMPTON,
Gen. SAMUEL COOPER,
ALEX. H. STEPHENS,
Gen. JOS. E. JOHNSTON,
Gen. JAMES LONGSTREET,
Gen. a. p. HILL,
Gen. JOHN B. HOOD,
Gen. KIRBY SMITH,
Gen. STERLING PRICE,
Gen. W. J. HARDEE,
Gen. JOHN MORGAN,
THE AUTHOR.
This is the only complete and accurate record of the great Civil, Military and
Naval operations in the South during the late War. Mr. Pollard's prominent and
influential position as Editor of the Richmond Examiner, placed within his reach
a mass of authentic material accessible to no other writer, and has enabled him to
prepare a work of the greatest value and interest, and which is everywhere ac-
knowledged to be the
STANDARD SOXTTHERN HISTORY.
Beginning with the causes leading to the War, the author describes carefully
and vividly the various brilliant and extraordinary campaigns of the entire con-
flict, and with a graphic and picturesque description of the "Fall of Richmond,"
and the succeeding surrender of the several Confederate Armies, completes his
most interesting history of the momentous four years during which Secession was
fought for and lost.
The Portraits (from original photographs) are the finest that have been en-
graved, and the whole work is gotten up in the best manner in every respect.
C. B. RICHARDSON, Publisher,
54^0 Broadway, Neiv York.
JUST PUBLISHED I
At> Elegant and. Oliarming DBooik,
WOMEN OF THE SOUTH:
DISTINGUISHED IN LITEEATUEE.
1 Vol. Svo.; 511 Fapes.
ILLTJSTRATED WITH SPLENDID PORTB.AITS, OH STEEL, FEOK LIFE, OF
Mme. Octavia Walton Lb Veet,
Miss Maeia J. McIntosh,
Mes. Rosa Veetnee Johkson,
Mrs. AirifA Coea Ritchib,
Miss Augusta J. Evans,
Mes. L. Vibglsia Feesch,
Maeioh Haelahd.
And containing full biogeaphical sketches ani specimen extracts from the mott
celebrated writings in prose and verse ^ of
35 DISTINGUISHED LITERARX " WOMEN OF THE SOUTH."
This charming hook has been prepared with the utmost care, and at very great
expense, and is one of the most valuable and interesting works yet issued. It is
a storehouse of the best productions of this large number of our most talented
and popular Female Writers, and is
A LIBRARY OF ELEGANT LITERATURE IN ITSELF.
Many of the writers in this briUiant company have achieved a world-wide repu-
tation, and among the extracts from their writings gathered into the volume, are
many of the most celebrated productions in our American Literature.
Tlve Portraits alone are zoorth more titan the cost of the Volume.
The book is beautifully printed on fine paper, and neatly bound in cloth.
Price $3.50. An extra Library edition — Morocco cloth, Gilt Edges, $4.50.
LIFE, SEEVIOES AND OAMPAIQNS
OF
STONEWALL JACKSON
BY A VIRGINIAif.
1 Volttme, 12mo j\ S25 pages ; $1.50.
"With Authentic Portraits of
JACKSON, and his Successor EWELL, on Steel. .
Stonewall Jacksox has made so profound and lasting an impression on the
public mind that an authentic biography is sought after with the greatest avidity.
This is a life written by a Confederate Officer, who knew him well, served under
him in his briUiant career, was assisted in the work by Mrs. Jackson, and had
access to all his papers.
It contains the only authentic portrait of Jackson — being the one taken from
life; shortly before the battle of Chancellorsville, for Mrs. Jacksok.
Date Due
cJms.^^
^j
1
*•'""
" '^73
Mw
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"^^^
Library Bureau Cat. No. 1137
RUTGERS THE STATE UNIVERSITY
3 9030 03672605 9
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